'.U' 


ELSIE  VENNER 

A   Romance   of  Destiny 

By 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 


Author  of  "  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  fable"  "The Professor 
at  the  Breakfast  Table"  etc.,  etc. 


GROSSET      6?     DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS,      NEW     YORK 


/ 


A) 
/8 
MfllH 


TO  THE 

SCHOOLMISTRESS 


WHO  HAS  FURNISHED    SOME  OUTLINES    MADE  USE  OF    IN 
THESE  PAGES  AND   ELSEWHERE 


Store  is  2>eMcate& 

BY  HER  OLDEST   SCHOLAR 


062 


PEEFACE. 

This  tale  was  published  in  successive  parts  in  the  "  At 
lantic  Monthly,"  under  the  name  of  "  The  Professor's 
Story,"  the  first  number  having  appeared  in  the  third  week 
of  December,  1859.  The  critic  who  is  curious  in  coinci 
dences  must  refer  to  the  Magazine  for  the  date  of  publica 
tion  of  the  chapter  he  is  examining. 

In  calling  this  narrative  a  "  romance,"  the  author  wishes 
to  make  sure  of  being  indulged  in  the  common  privileges 
of  the  poetic  license.  Through  all  the  disguise  of  fiction 
a  grave  scientific  doctrine  may  be  detected  lying  beneath 
some  of  the  delineations  of  character.  He  has  used  this 
doctrine  as  a  part  of  the  machinery  of  his  story  without 
pledging  his  absolute  belief  in  it  to  the  extent  to  which  it 
is  asserted  or  implied.  It  was  adopted  as  a  convenient 
medium  of  truth  rather  than  as  an  accepted  scientific  con 
clusion.  The  reader  must  judge  for  himself  what  is  the 
value  of  various  stories  cited  from  old  authors.  He  must 
decide  how  much  of  what  has  been  told  he  can  accept,  either 
as  having  actually  happened,  or  as  possible  and  more  or 
less  probable.  The  author  must  be  permitted,  however,  to 
say  here,  in  his  personal  character,  and  as  responsible  to 
the  students  of  the  human  mind  and  body,  that  since  this 
story  has  been  in  progress  he  has  received  the  most  star 
tling  confirmation  of  the  possibility  of  the  existence  of  a 
character  like  that  which  he  had  drawn  as  a  purely  imagi 
nary  conception  in  Elsie  Venner. 
BOSTON,  January,  1861. 


A   SECOND   PKEFACE. 

This  is  the  story  which  a  dear  old  lady,  my  very  good 
friend,  spoke  of  as  "  a  medicated  novel,"  and  quite  properly 
refused  to  read.  I  was  always  pleased  with  her  discriminat 
ing  criticism.  It  is  a  medicated  novel,  and  if  she  wished  to 
read  for  mere  amusement  and  helpful  recreation  there  was 
no  need  of  troubling  herself  with  a  story  written  with  a 
different  end  in  view. 

This  story  has  called  forth  so  many  curious  inquiries  that 
it  seems  worth  while  to  answer  the  more  important  questions 
which  have  occurred  to  its  readers. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  based  on  any  well-ascertained 
physiological  fact.  There  are  old  fables  about  patients  who 
have  barked  like  dogs  or  crowed  like  cocks,  after  being 
bitten  or  wounded  by  those  animals.  There  is  nothing 
impossible  in  the  idea  that  Romulus  and  Remus  may  have 
imbibed  wolfish  traits  of  character  from  the  wet  nurse  leg 
end  assigned  them,  but  the  legend  is  not  sound  history,  and 
the  supposition  is  nothing  more  than  a  speculative  fancy. 
Still,  there  is  a  limbo  of  curious  evidence  bearing  on  the 
subject  of  prenatal  influences  sufficient  to  form  the  starting 
point  of  an  imaginative  composition. 

The  real  aim  of  the  story  was  to  test  the  doctrine  of 
"  original  sin  "  and  human  responsibility  for  the  disordered 
volition  coming  under  that  technical  denomination.  Was 
Elsie  Venner,  poisoned  by  the  venom  of  a  crotalus  before 
she  was  born,  morally  responsible  for  the  "  volitional " 
aberrations,  which  translated  into  acts  become  what  is 
known  as  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  what  is  punished  as  crime? 
If,  on  presentation  of  the  evidence,  she  becomes  by  the 
verdict  of  the  human  conscience  a  proper  object  of  divine 
pity,  and  not  of  divine  wrath,  as  a  subject  of  moral  poison 
ing,  wherein  lies  the  difference  between  her  position  at  the 
bar  of  judgment,  human  or  divine,  and  that  of  the  unfortu 
nate  victim  who  received  a  moral  poison  from  a  remote 
ancestor  before  he  drew  his  first  breath? 

vii 


VI 11  A    SECOND    PREFACE. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  character  of  Elsie  Venner 
was  suggested  by  some  of  the  fabulous  personages  of  class 
ical  or  mediaeval  story.  I  remember  that  a  French  critic 
spoke  of  her  as  cette  pauvre  Melusine.  I  ought  to  have 
been  ashamed,  perhaps,  but  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  who 
Melusina  was  until  I  hunted  up  the  story,  and  found  that 
she  was  a  fairy,  who  for  some  offense  was  changed  every 
Saturday  to  a  serpent  from  her  waist  downward.  I  was,  of 
course,  familiar  with  Keats's  Lamia,  another  imaginary 
being,  the  subject  of  magical  transformation  into  a  serpent. 
My  story  was  well  advanced  before  Hawthorne's  wonderful 
"  Marble  Faun,"  which  might  be  thought  to  have  furnished 
me  with  the  hint  of  a  mixed  nature, — human,  with  an  alien 
element, — was  published  or  known  to  me.  So  that  my  poor 
heroine  found  her  origin,  not  in  fable  or  romance,  but  in 
a  physiological  conception,  fertilized  by  a  theological  dogma. 
I  had  the  dissatisfaction  of  enjoying  from  a  quiet  corner 
a  well-meant  effort  to  dramatize  "  Elsie  Venner."  Unfortu 
nately,  a  physiological  romance,  as  I  knew  beforehand,  is 
hardly  adapted  for  the  melodramatic  efforts  of  stage  repre 
sentation.  I  can  therefore  say,  with  perfect  truth,  that  I 
was  not  disappointed.  It  is  to  the  mind,  and  not  to  the 
senses,  that  such  a  story  must  appeal,  and  all  attempts  to 
render  the  character  and  events  objective  on  the  stage,  or 
to  make  them  real  by  artistic  illustrations,  are  almost  of 
necessity  failures.  The  story  has  won  the  attention  and 
enjoyed  the  favor  of  a  limited  class  of  readers,  and  if  it 
still  continues  to  interest  others  of  the  same  tastes  and 
habits  of  thought  I  can  ask  nothing  more  of  it. 
January  23,  1883. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  BRAHMIN  CASTE  OP  NEW  ENGLAND,       .       .       1 

II.  THE  STUDENT  AND  His  CERTIFICATE,      ...        5 

III.  MR.  BERNARD  TRIES  His  HAND,      ....      16 

IV.  THE  MOTH  FLIES  INTO  THE  CANDLE,       ...      30 
V.  AN  OLD-FASHIONED  DESCRIPTIVE  CHAPTER,    .        .      39 

VI.  THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW,    ....      50 

VII.    THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON, 59 

VIII.    THE  MORNING  AFTER, 87 

IX.  THE  DOCTOR   ORDERS  THE  BEST  SULKY,       .        .      99 

X.  THE  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  ELSIE  VENNER,          .        .    103 

XI.    COUSIN  RICHARD'S  VISIT, 110 

XII.  THE    APOLLINEAN   INSTITUTE,          .        .        .        .121 

XIII.  CURIOSITY, 131 

XIV.  FAMILY  SECRETS, 142 

XV.    PHYSIOLOGICAL, 150 

XVI.    EPISTOLARY, 161 

XVII.  OLD  SOPHY  CALLS  ON  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR,    .    172 

XVIII.  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  BROTHER  FAIR- 

WEATHER, 185 

XIX.  THE  SPIDER  ON  His  THREAD,           .        .        .        .192 

XX.  FROM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN,        .        .        .202 

XXI.  THE  WIDOW  ROWENS  GIVES  A  TEA-PARTY,  .        .211 

XXII.    WHY  DOCTORS  DIFFER, 231 

XXIII.  THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN 243 

XXIV.  ON  His  TRACKS, 253 

XXV.    THE  PERILOUS  HOUR, 262 

XXVI.  THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION,        ,    281 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXVII.  A  SOUL  IN  DISTRESS, 

XXVIII.  THE  SECRET  is  WHISPERED, 

XXIX.  THE  WHITE  ASH 

XXX.  THE  GOLDEN  CORD  is  LOOSED, 

XXXI.  MR.  SILAS  PECKHAM  RENDERS  His  ACCOUNT, 

XXXII.  CONCLUSION,     .  .... 


PAGE 

295 
303 
322 
330 
342 
355 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTEE    I. 

THE  BRAHMIN  CASTE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

There  is  nothing  in  New  England  corresponding  at  all 
to  the  feudal  aristocracies  of  the  Old  World.  Whether  it 
be  owing  to  the  stock  from  which  we  were  derived,  or  to 
the  practical  working  of  our  institutions,  or  to  the  abroga 
tion  of  the  technical  "  law  of  honor,"  which  draws  a  sharp 
line  between  the  personally  responsible  class  of  "  gentlemen  " 
and  the  unnamed  multitude  of  those  who  are  not  expected 
to  risk  their  lives  for  an  abstraction, — whatever  be  the  cause, 
we  have  no  such  aristocracy  here  as  that  which  grew  up  out 
of  the  military  systems  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

What  we  mean  by  "  aristocracy  "  is  merely  the  richer  part 
of  the  community,  that  live  in  the  tallest  houses,  drive  real 
carriages,  (not  "  kerridges,")  kid-glove  their  hands,  and 
French-bonnet  their  ladies'  heads,  give  parties  where  the 
persons  who  call  them  by  the  above  title  are  not  invited, 
and  have  a  provokingly  easy  way  of  dressing,  walking,  talk 
ing,  and  nodding  to  people,  as  if  they  felt  entirely  at  home, 
and  would  not  be  embarrassed  in  the  least,  if  they  met  the 
Governor,  or  even  the  President  of  the  United  States,  face 
to  face.  Some  of  these  great  folks  are  really  well-bred,  | 
some  of  them  are  only  purse-proud  and  assuming, — but  they  | 
form  a  class,  and  are  named  as  above  in  the  common  speech.  ) 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  large  fortunes  to  diminish  rapidly, 
when  subdivided  and  distributed.  A  million  is  the  unit 
of  wealth,  now  and  here  in  America.  It  splits  into  four 
handsome  properties;  each  of  these  into  four  good  inherit 
ances  ;  these,  again,  into  scanty  competences  for  four  ancient 
maidens, — with  whom  it  is  best  the  family  should  die  out, 
unless  it  can  begin  again  as  its  great-grandfather  did.  Now 


2  ELSIE   VENNEK, 

a  million  is  a  kind  of  golden  cheese,  which  represents  in 
a  compendious  form  the  summer's  growth  of  a  fat  meadow 
of  craft  or  commerce;  and  as  this  kind  of  meadow  rarely 
bears  more  than  one  crop,  it  is  pretty  certain  that  sons  and 
grandsons  will  not  get  another  golden  cheese  out  of  it, 
whether  they  milk  the  same  cows  or  turn  in  new  ones.  In, 
other  words,  the  millionocracy,  considered  in  a  large  way, 
is  not  at  all  an  affair  of  persons  and  families,  but  a  per 
petual  fact  of  money  with  a  variable  human  element,  which 
a  philosopher  might  leave  out  of  consideration  without  fall 
ing  into  serious  error.  Of  course,  this  trivial  and  fugitive 
fact  of  personal  wealth  does  not  create  a  permanent  class, 
unless  some  special  means  are  taken  to  arrest  the  process 
of  disintegration  in  the  third  generation.  This  is  so  rarely 
done,  at  least  successfully,  that  one  need  not  live  a  very 
long  life  to  see  most  of  the  rich  families  he  knew  in  child 
hood  more  or  less  reduced,  and  the  millions  shifted  into  the 
hands  of  the  country-boys  who  were  sweeping  stores  and 
carrying  parcels  when  the  now  decayed  gentry  were  driving 
their  chariots,  eating  their  venison  over  silver  chafing- 
dishes,  drinking  Madeira  chilled  in  embossed  coolers,  wear 
ing  their  hair  in  powder,  and  casing  their  legs  in  long 
boots  with  silken  tassels. 

There  is,  however,  in  New  England,  an  aristocracy,  if  you 
choose  to  call  it  so,  which  has  a  far  greater  character  of 
permanence.  It  has  grown  to  be  a  caste, — not  in  any  odious 
sense, — but,  by  the  repetition  of  the  same  influences,  gen 
eration  after  generation,  it  has  acquired  a  distinct  organ 
ization  and  physiognomy,  which  not  to  recognize  is  mere 
stupidity,  and  not  to  be  willing  to  describe  would  show  a 
distrust  of  the  good-nature  and  intelligence  of  our  readers, 
who  like  to  have  us  see  all  we  can  and  tell  all  we  see. 

If  you  will  look  carefully  at  any  class  of  students  in  one 
of  our  colleges,  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  selecting  speci 
mens  of  two  different  aspects  of  youthful  manhood.  Of 
course  I  shall  choose  extreme  cases  to  illustrate  the  contrast 
between  them.  In  the  first,  the  figure  is  perhaps  robust, 
but  often  otherwise, — inelegant,  partly  from  careless  atti 
tudes,  partly  from  ill-dressing, — the  face  is  uncouth  in  fea 
ture,  or  at  least  common, — the  mouth  coarse  and  unformed, 
— the  eye  unsympathetic,  even  if  bright, — the  movements 
of  the  face  are  clumsy,  like  those  of  the  limbs, — the  voice 


THE    BRAHMIN    CASTE    OF    NEW    ENGLAND.  3 

is  unmusical, — and  the  enunciation  as  if  the  words  were 
coarse  castings  instead  of  fine  carvings.  The  youth  of  the 
other  aspect  is  commonly  slender, — his  face  is  smooth,  and 
apt  to  be  pallid, — his  features  are  regular  and  of  a  certain 
delicacy, — his  eye  is  bright  and  quick, — his  lips  play  over 
he  thought  he  utters  as  a  pianist's  fingers  dance  over  their 
music, — and  his  whole  air,  though  it  may  be  timid,  and 
even  awkward,  has  nothing  clownish.  If  you  are  a  teacher, 
you  know  what  to  expect  from  each  of  these  young  men. 
With  equal  willingness,  the  first  will  be  slow  at  learning; 
the  second  will  take  to  his  books  as  a  pointer  or  a  setter  to 
his  field-work. 

The  first  youth  is  the  common  country-boy,  whose  race 
has  been  bred  to  bodily  labor.  Nature  has  adapted  the 
family  organization  to  the  kind  of  life  it  has  lived.  The 
hands  and  feet  by  constant  use  have  got  more  than  their 
share  of  development, — the  organs  of  thought  and  expres 
sion  less  than  their  share.  The  finer  instincts  are  latent 
and  must  be  developed.  A  youth  of  this  kind  is  raw  ma 
terial  in  its  first  stage  of  elaboration.  You  must  not  expect 
too  much  of  any  such.  Many  of  them  have  force  of  will 
and  character,  and  become  distinguished  in  practical  life; 
but  very  few  of  them  ever  become  great  scholars.  A  scholar 
is,  in  a  large  proportion  of  cases,  the  son  of  scholars  or 
scholarly  persons. 

That  is  exactly  what  the  other  young  man  is.  He  comes 
of  the  Brahmin  caste  of  New  England.  This  is  the  harmless, 
inoffensive,  untitled  aristocracy  referred  to,  and  which  many  % 
readers  will  at  once  acknowledge.  There  are  races  of  schol 
ars  among  us,  in  which  aptitude  for  learning,  and  all  these 
marks  of  it  I  have  spoken  of,  are  congenital  and  hereditary. 
Their  names  are  always  on  some  college  catalogue  or  other. 
They  break  out  every  generation  or  two  in  some  learned 
labor  which  calls  them  up  after  they  seem  to  have  died  out. 
At  last  some  newer  name  takes  their  place,  it  may  be, — but 
you  inquire  a  little  and  you  find  it  is  the  blood  of  the 
Edwardses  or  the  Chaunoeys  or  the  Ellerys  or  some  of  the 
old  historic  scholars,  disguised  under  the  altered  name  of 
a  female  descendant. 

There  probably  is  not  an  experienced  instructor  anywhere 
in  our  Northern  States  who  will  not  recognize  at  once  the 
truth  of  this  general  distinction.  But  the  reader  who  has 


4  ELSIE    VENDER. 

never  been  a  teacher  will  very  probably  object,  that  some  of 
our  most  illustrious  public  men  have  come  direct  from  the 
homespun-clad  class  of  the  people, — and  he  may,  perhaps, 
even  find  a  noted  scholar  or  two  whose  parents  were  masters 
of  the  English  alphabet,  but  of  no  other. 

It  is  not  fair  to  pit  a  few  chosen  families  against  the  great 
multitude  of  those  who  are  continually  working  their  way 
up  into  the  intellectual  classes.  The  results  which  are 
habitually  reached  by  hereditary  training  are  occasionally 
brought  about  without  it.  There  are  natural  filters  as  well 
as  artificial  ones;  and  though  the  great  rivers  are  commonly 
more  or  less  turbid,  if  you  will  look  long  enough,  you  may 
find  a  spring  that  sparkles  as  no  water  does  which  drips 
through  your  apparatus  of  sands  and  sponges.  So  there  are 
families  which  refine  themselves  into  intellectual  aptitude 
without  having  had  much  opportunity  for  intellectual  ac 
quirements.  A  series  of  felicitous  crosses  develops  an_  im 
proved  strain  of  blood,  and  reaches  its  maximum  perfection 
at  last  in  the  large  uncombed  youth  who  goes  to  college  and 
startles  the  hereditary  class-leaders  by  striding  past  them  all. 
That  is  Nature's  republicanism;  thank  God  for  it,  but  do 
not  let  it  make  you  illogical.  The  race  of  the  hereditary 
scholar  has  exchanged  a  certain  portion  of  its  animal  vigor 
for  its  new  instincts,  and  it  is  hard  to  lead  men  without 
a  good  deal  of  animal  vigor.  The  scholar  who  comes  by 
Nature's  special  grace  from  an  unworn  stock  of  broad- 
chested  sires  and  deep-bosomed  mothers  must  always  over 
match  an  equal  intelligence  with  a  compromised  and  lowered 
vitality.  A  man's  breathing  and  digestive  apparatus  (one  is 
tempted  to  add  muscular)  are  just  as  important  to  him  on 
the  floor  of  the  Senate  as  his  thinking  organs.  You  broke 
down  in  your  great  speech,  did  you  ?  Yes,  your  grandfather 
had  an  attack  of  dyspepsia  in  '82,  after  working  too  hard 
on  his  famous  Election  Sermon.  All  this  does  not  touch 
the  main  fact:  our  scholars  come  chiefly  from  a  privileged 
order,  just  as  our  best  fruits  come  from  well-known  grafts, 
— though  now  and  then  a  seedling  apple,  like  the  Northern 
Spy,  or  a  seedling  pear,  like  the  Seckel,  springs  from  a 
nameless  ancestry  and  grows  to  be  the  pride  of  all  the  gar 
dens  in  the  land. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  a  young  man  who  belongs  to  the 
Brahmin  caste  of  New  England. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STUDENT  AND  HIS  CERTIFICATE. 

Bernard  C.  Langdon,  a  young  man  attending  Medical 
Lectures  at  the  school  connected  with  one  of  our  principal 
colleges,  remained  after  the  lecture  one  day  and  wished  to 
speak  with  the  professor.  He  was  a  student  of  mark, — first 
favorite  of  his  year,  as  they  say  of  the  Derby  colts.  There 
are  in  every  class  half  a  dozen  bright  faces  to  which  the 
teacher  naturally  directs  his  discourse,  and  by  the  inter 
mediation  of  whose  attention  he  seems  to  hold  that  of  the 
mass  of  listeners.  Among  these  some  one  is  pretty  sure 
to  take  the  lead,  by  virtue  of  a  personal  magnetism,  or  some 
peculiarity  of  expression,  which  places  the  face  in  quick 
sympathetic  relations  with  the  lecturer.  This  was  a  young 
man  with  such  a  face;  and  I  found, — for  you  have  guessed 
that  I  was  the  "  professor "  above-mentioned, — that  when 
there  was  anything  difficult  to  be  explained,  or  when  I  was 
bringing  out  some  favorite  illustration  of  a  nice  point,  (as, 
for  instance,  when  I  compared  the  cell-growth,  by  which 
Nature  builds  up  a  plant  or  an  animal,  to  the  glass  blower's 
similar  mode  of  beginning, — always  with  a  hollow  sphere, 
or  vesicle,  whatever  he  is  going  to  make,)  I  naturally  looked 
in  his  face  and  gauged  my  success  by  its  expression. 

It  was  a  handsome  face, — a  little  too  pale,  perhaps,  and 
would  have  borne  something  more  of  fullness  without  becom 
ing  heavy.  I  put  the  organization  to  which  it  belongs  in 
Section  B  of  Class  1  of  my  Anglo-American  Anthropology 
(unpublished).  The  jaw  in  this  section  is  but  slightly  nar 
rowed, — just  enough  to  make  the  width  of  the  forehead  tell 
more  decidedly.  The  mustache  often  grows  vigorously,  but 
the  whiskers  are  thin.  The  skin  is  like  that  of  Jacob,  rather 
than  like  Esau's.  One  string  of  the  animal  nature  has  been 
taken  away,  but  this  gives  only  a  greater  predominance  to 
the  intellectual  chords.  To  see  just  how  the  vital  energy 
has  been  toned  down,  you  must  contrast  one  of  this  section 
with  a  specimen  of  Section  A  of  the  same  class, — say,  for 


6  ELSIE   VENDER. 

instance,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  full-whiskered,  red 
faced,  roaring,  big  commodores  of  the  last  generation,  whon 
you  remember,  at  least  by  their  portraits,  in  ruffled  shirts 
looking  as  hearty  as  butchers  and  as  plucky  as  bull-terriers 
with  their  hair  combed  straight  up  from  their  foreheads, 
which  were  not  commonly  very  high  or  broad.  The  special 
form  of  physical  life  I  have  been  describing  gives  you  a 
right  to  expect  more  delicate  perceptions  and  a  more  re 
flective  nature  than  you  commonly  find  in  shaggy-throated 
men,  clad  in  heavy  suits  of  muscles. 

The  student  lingered  in  the  lecture-room,  looking  all  the 
time  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  something  in  private,  and  wait 
ing  for  two  or  three  others,  who  were  still  hanging  about, 
to  be  gone. 

Something  is  wrong! — I  said  to  myself,  when  I  noticed 
his  expression. — "  Well,  Mr.  Langdon," — I  said  to  him,  when 
we  were  alone, — ft  can  I  do  anything  for  you  to-day  ?  " 

"  You  can,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going  to  leave  the  class, 
for  the  present,  and  keep  school." 

"  Why,  that's  a  pity,  and  you  so  near  graduating !  You'd 
better  stay  and  finish  this  course,  and  take  your  degree  in 
the  spring,  rather  than  break  up  your  whole  plan  of  study.'* 

"  I  can't  help  myself,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered. 
"  There's  trouble  at  home,  and  they  cannot  keep  me  here 
as  they  have  done.  So  I  must  look  out  for  myself  for  a 
while.  It's  what  I've  done  before,  and  am  ready  to  do 
again.  I  came  to  ask  you  for  a  certificate  of  my  fitness  to 
teach  a  common  school,  or  a  high  school,  if  you  think  I 
am  up  to  that.  Are  you  willing  to  give  it  to  me  ?" 

"  Willing  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure ;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  go. 
Stay;  we'll  make  it  easy  for  you.  There's  a  fund  will  do 
something  for  you,  perhaps.  Then  you  can  take  both  the 
annual  prizes  if  you  like, — and  claim  them  in  money,  if 
you  want  that  more  than  medals." 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over,"  he  answered,  "  and  have 
pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  go." 

A  perfectly  gentlemanly  young  man,  of  courteous  address 
and  mild  utterance,  but  means  at  least  as  much  as  he  says. 
There  are  some  people  whose  rhetoric  consists  of  a  slight 
habitual  understatement.  I  often  tell  Mrs.  Professor  that 
one  of  her  "  I  think  it's  sos "  is  worth  the  Bible-oath  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  household  that  they  "  know  it's  so."  When 


THE   STUDENT   AND   HIS   CERTIFICATE.  7 

you  find  a  person  a  little  better  than  his  word,  a  little  more 
liberal  than  his  promise,  a  little  more  than  borne  out  in  his 
statement  by  his  facts,  a  little  larger  in  deed  than  in  speech, 
you  recognize  a  kind  of  eloquence  in  that  person's  utterance 
riot  laid  down  in  Blair  or  Campbell. 

This  was  a  proud  fellow,  self-trusting,  sensitive,  with 
family-recollections  that  made  him  unwilling  to  accept 
the  kind  of  aid  which  many  students  would  have  thankfully 
welcomed.  I  knew  him  too  well  to  urge  him,  after  the  few 
words  which  implied  that  he  was  determined  to  go.  Besides, 
I  have  great  confidence  in  young  men  who  believe  in  them 
selves,  and  are  accustomed  to  rely  on  their  own  resources 
from  an  early  period.  When  a  resolute  young  fellow  steps 
up  to  the  great  bully,  the  World,  and  takes  him  boldly  by  the 
beard,  he  is  often  surprised  to  find  it  come  off  in  his  hand, 
and  that  it  was  only  tied  on  to  scare  away  timid  adventurers. 
I  have  seen  young  men  more  than  once,  who  came  to  a  great 
city  without  a  single  friend,  support  themselves  and  pay  for 
their  education,  lay  up  money  in  a  few  years,  grow  rich 
enough  to  travel,  and  establish  themselves  in  life,  without 
ever  asking  a  dollar  of  any  person  which  they  had  not  earned. 
But  these  are  exceptional  cases.  There  are  horse-tamers, 
born  so,  as  we  all  know;  there  are  woman-tamers  who  be 
witch  the  sex  as  the  pied  piper  bedeviled  the  children  of 
Hamelin;  and  there  are  world-tamers,  who  can  make  any 
community,  even  a  Yankee  one,  get  down  and  let  them  jump 
on  its  back  as  easily  as  Mr.  Rarey  saddled  Cruiser. 

Whether  Langdon  was  of  this  sort  or  not  I  could  not  say 
positively;  but  he  had  spirit,  and,  as  I  have  said,  a  family- 
pride  which  would  not  let  him  be  dependent.  The  New 
England  Brahmin  caste  often  gets  blended  with  connections 
of  political  influence  or  commercial  distinction.  It  is  a 
charming  thing  for  the  scholar,  when  his  fortune  carries 
him  in  this  way  into  some  of  the  "  old  families  "  who  have 
fine  old  houses,  and  city-lots  that  have  risen  in  the  market, 
and  names  written  in  all  the  stock-books  of  all  the  dividend- 
paying  companies.  His  narrow  study  expands  into  a  stately 
library,  his  books  are  counted  by  thousands  instead  of  hun 
dreds,  and  his  favorites  are  dressed  in  gilded  calf  in  place 
of  plebeian  sheepskin  or  its  pauper  substitutes  of  cloth  and 
paper. 

The   Reverend    Jedediah    Langdon,    grandfather    of    our 


8  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

young  genteman,  had  made  an  advantageous  alliance  of  this 
kind.  Miss  Dorothea  Wentworth  had  read  one  of  his  ser 
mons  which  had  been  printed  "  by  request,"  and  became 
deeply  interested  in  the  young  author,  whom  she  had  never 
seen.  Out  of  this  circumstance  grew  a  correspondence,  an 
interview,  a  declaration,  a  matrimonial  alliance,  and  a 
family  of  half  a  dozen  children.  Wentworth  Langdon, 
Esq.,  was  the  oldest  of  these,  and  lived  in  the  old  family- 
mansion.  Unfortunately,  that  principle  of  the  diminution 
of  estates  by  division,  to  which  I  have  referred,  rendered  it 
somewhat  difficult  to  maintain  the  establishment  upon  the 
fractional  income  which  the  proprietor  received  from  his 
share  of  the  property.  Wentworth  Langdon,  Esq.,  repre 
sented  a  certain  intermediate  condition  of  life  not  at  all 
infrequent  in  our  old  families.  He  was  the  connecting  link 
between  the  generation  which  lived  in  ease,  and  even  a  kind 
of  state,  upon  its  own  resources,  and  the  new  brood,  which 
must  live  mainly  by  its  wits  or  industry,  and  make  itself 
rich,  or  shabbily  subside  into  that  lower  stratum  know7!! 
to  social  geologists  by  a  deposit  of  Kidderminster  carpets 
and  the  peculiar  aspect  of  the  fossils  constituting  the  family 
furniture  and  wardrobe.  This  slack-water  period  of  a  race, 
which  comes  before  the  rapid  ebb  of  its  prosperity,  is  fa 
miliar  to  all  who  live  in  cities.  There  are  no  more  quiet,  in 
offensive  people  than  these  children  of  rich  families,  just 
above  the  necessity  of  active  employment,  yet  not  in  a  condi 
tion  to  place  their  own  children  advantageously  if  they  hap 
pen  to  have  families.  Many  of  them  are  content  to  live 
unmarried.  Some  mend  their  broken  fortunes  by  prudent 
alliances,  and  some  leave  a  numerous  progeny  to  pass  into 
the  obscurity  from  which  their  ancestors  emerged;  so  that 
you  may  see  on  handcarts  and  cobblers'  stalls  names  which, 
a  few  generations  back,  were  upon  parchments  with  broad 
seals,  and  tombstones  with  armorial  bearings. 

In  a  large  city,  this  class  of  citizens  is  familiar  to  us  in 
the  streets.  They  are  very  courteous  in  their  salutations; 
they  have  time  enough  to  bow  and  take  their  hats  off, — 
which,  of  course,  no  business-man  can  afford  to  do.  Their 
beavers  are  smoothly  brushed,  and  their  boots  well  polished; 
all  their  appointments  are  tidy;  they  look  the  respectable 
walking  gentleman  to  perfection.  They  are  prone  to  habits, 
• — they  frequent  reading-rooms,  insurance-offices, — they  walk 


THE    STUDENT    AND    HIS    CERTIFICATE.  9 

the  same  streets  at  the  same  hours, — so  that  one  becomes 
familiar  with  their  faces  and  persons,  as  a  part  of  the  street- 
furniture. 

There  is  one  curious  circumstance,  that  all  city-people 
must  have  noticed,  which  is  often  illustrated  in  our  experi 
ence  of  the  slack-water  gentry.  We  shall  know  a  certain 
person  by  his  looks,  familiarly,  for  years,  but  never  have 
learned  his  name.  About  this  person  we  shall  have  accumu 
lated  no  little  circumstantial  knowledge ; — thus  his  face, 
figure,  gait,  his  mode  of  dressing,  of  saluting,  perhaps  even 
of  speaking  may  be  familiar  to  us;  yet  who  he  is  we  know 
not.  In  another  department  of  our  consciousness,  there  is  a 
very  familiar  name,  which  we  have  never  found  the  person 
to  match.  We  have  heard  it  so  often,  that  it  has  idealized 
itself,  and  become  one  of  that  multitude  of  permanent  shapes 
which  walk  the  chambers  of  the  brain  in  velvet  slippers  in 
the  company  of  Falstaff  and  Hamlet  and  General  Washing 
ton  and  Mr.  Pickwick.  Sometimes  the  person  dies,  but  the 
name  lives  on  indefinitely.  But  now  and  then  it  happens, 
perhaps  after  years  of  this  independent  existence  of  the 
name  and  its  shadowy  image  in  the  brain,  on  the  one  part, 
and  the  person  and  all  its  real  attributes,  as  we  see  them 
daily,  on  the  other,  that  some  accident  reveals  their  relation, 
and  we  find  the  name  we  have  carried  so  long  in  our  memory 
belongs  to  the  person  we  have  known  so  long  as  a  fellow- 
citizen.  Now  the  slack-water  gentry  are  among  the  persons  ' 
most  likely  to  be  the  subjects  of  this  curious  divorce  of  title 
and  reality, — for  the  reason,  that,  playing  no  important  part 
in  the  community,  there  is  nothing  to  tie  the  floating  name 
to  the  actual  individual,  as  is  the  case  with  the  men  who 
belong  in  any  way  to  the  public,  while  yet  their  names  have 
a  certain  historical  currency,  and  we  cannot  help  meeting 
them,  either  in  their  haunts,  or  going  to  and  from  them. 

To  this  class  belonged  Wentworth  Langdon,  Esq.  He  had 
been  "  dead-headed "  into  the  world  some  fifty  years  ago, 
and  had  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  staring  at  the 
show  ever  since.  I  shall  not  tell  you,  for  reasons  before 
hinted,  the  whole  name  of  the  place  in  which  he  lived.  I 
will  only  point  you  in  the  right  direction,  by  saying  that 
there  are  three  towns  lying  in  a  line  with  each  other,  as  you 
go  "  down  East,"  each  of  them  with  a  Port  in  its  name,  and 
each  of  them  having  a  peculiar  interest  which  gives  it  in- 


10  ELSIE    VENNER. 

dividuality,  in  addition  to  the  Oriental  character  they  have 
in  common.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  these  towns  are  New- 
buryport,  Portsmouth,  and  Portland.  The  Oriental  char 
acter  they  have  in  common  consists  in  their  large,  square, 
palatial  mansions,  with  sunny  gardens  around  them.  The 
two  first  have  seen  better  days.  They  are  in  perfect  har 
mony  with  the  condition  of  weakened,  but  not  impoverished, 
gentility.  Each  of  them  is  a  "  paradise  of  demi-fortunes." 
Each  of  them  is  of  that  intermediate  size  between  a  village 
and  a  city  which  any  place  has  outgrown  when  the  presence 
of  a  well-dressed  stranger  walking  up  and  down  the  main 
street  ceases  to  be  a  matter  of  public  curiosity  and  private 
speculation,  as  frequently  happens,  during  the  busier  months 
of  the  year,  in  considerable  commercial  centers  like  Salem. 
They  both  have  grand  old  recollections  to  fall  back  upon, — 
times  when  they  looked  forward  to  commercial  greatness, 
and  when  the  portly  gentlemen  in  cocked  hats,  who  built 
their  now  decaying  wharves  and  sent  out  their  ships  all  over 
the  world,  dreamed  that  their  fast-growing  port  was  to  be 
the  Tyre  or  the  Carthage  of  the  rich  British  Colony. 
Great  houses,  like  that  once  lived  in  by  Lord  Timothy  Dex 
ter,  in  Newburyport,  remain  as  an  evidence  of  the  fortunes 
amassed  in  these  places  of  old.  Other  mansions — like  the 
Rockingham  House  in  Portsmouth  (look  at  the  white  horse's 
tail  before  you  mount  the  broad  staircase)  show  that  there 
was  not  only  wealth,  but  style  and  state,  in  these  quiet  old 
towns  during  the  last  century.  It  is  not  with  any  thought 
of  pity  or  depreciation  that  we  speak  of  them  as  in  a  certain 
sense  decayed  towns;  they  did  not  fulfill  their  early  promise 
of  expansion,  but  they  remain  incomparably  the  most  inter 
esting  places  of  their  size  in  any  of  the  three  northernmost 
New  England  States.  They  have  even  now  prosperity  enough 
to  keep  them  in  good  condition,  and  offer  the  most  attractive 
residences  for  quiet  families,  which,  if  they  had  been  Eng 
lish,  would  have  lived  in  a  palazzo  at  Genoa  or  Pisa,  or  some 
other  Continental  Newburyport  or  Portsmouth. 

As  for  the  last  of  the  three  Ports,  or  Portland,  it  is  getting 
too  prosperous  to  be  as  attractive  as  its  less  northerly  neigh 
bors.  Meant  for  a  fine  old  town,  to  ripen  like  a  Cheshire 
cheese  within  its  walls  of  ancient  rind,  burrowed  by  crooked 
alleys  and  mottled  with  venerable  mold,  it  seems  likely  to 
sacrifice  its  mellow  future  to  a  vulgar  material  prosperity. 


THE    STUDEKT   AKD    HIS    CERTIFICATE.  11 

Still  it  remains  invested  with  many  of  its  old  charms,  as  yet, 
and  will  forfeit  its  place  among  this  admirable  trio  only 
when  it  gets  a  hotel  with  unequivocal  marks  of  having  been 
built  and  organized  in  the  present  century. 

— It  was  one  of  the  old  square  palaces  of  the  North,  in 
which  Bernard  Langdon,  the  son  of  Wentworth,  was  born. 
If  he  had  had  the  luck  to  be  an  only  child,  he  might  have 
lived  as  his  father  had  done,  letting  his  meager  competence; 
smolder  on  almost  without  consuming,  like  the  fuel  in  an 
air-tight  stove.  But  after  Master  Bernard  came  Miss  Doro 
thea  Elizabeth  Wentworth  Langdon,  and  then  Master  Wil 
liam  Pepperell  Langdon,  and  others,  equally  well  named, — 
a  string  of  them,  looking,  when  they  stood  in  a  row  in  prayer- 
time,  as  if  they  would  fit  a  set  of  Pandean  pipes,  of  from 
three  feet  upward  in  dimensions.  The  door  of  the  air-tight 
stove  has  to  be  opened,  under  such  circumstances,  you  may 
well  suppose!  So  it  happened  that  our  young  man  had 
been  obliged,  from  an  early  period,  to  do  something  to  sup 
port  himself,  and  found  himself  stopped  short  in  his  studies 
by  the  inability  of  the  good  people  at  home  to  furnish  him 
the  present  means  of  support  as  a  student. 

You  will  understand  now  why  the  young  man  wanted  me 
to  give  him  a  certificate  of  his  fitness  to  teach,  and  why  I 
did  not  choose  to  urge  him  to  accept  the  aid  which  a  meek 
country  boy  from  a  family  without  ante-Revolutionary  recol 
lections  would  have  thankfully  received.  Go  he  must, — 
that  was  plain  enough.  He  would  not  be  content  otherwise. 
He  was  not,  however,  to  give  up  his  studies ;  and  as  it  is  cus 
tomary  to  allow  half-time  to  students  engaged  in  school- 
keeping, — that  is,  to  count  a  year,  so  employed,  if  the  student 
also  keep  on  with  his  professional  studies,  as  equal  to  six 
months  of  the  three  years  he  is  expected  to  be  under  an  in 
structor  before  applying  for  his  degree, — he  would  not  neces 
sarily  lose  more  than  a  few  months  of  time.  He  had  a  small 
library  of  professional  books,  which  he  could  take  with  him. 

So  he  left  my  teaching  and  that  of  my  estimable  colleagues, 
carrying  with  him  my  certificate,  that  Mr.  Bernard  C.  Lang 
don  was  a  young  gentleman  of  excellent  moral  character, 
of  high  intelligence  and  good  education,  and  that  his  ser 
vices  would  be  of  great  value  in  any  school,  academy,  or 
other  institution,  where  young  persons  of  either  sex  were  to 
be  instructed. 


12  ELSIE   VENNER. 

I  confess,  that  expression,  "  either  sex,"  ran  a  little  thick, 
as  I  may  say,  from  my  pen.  For,  although  the  young  man 
bore  a  very  fair  character,  and  there  was  no  special  cause 
for  doubting  his  discretion,  I  considered  him  altogether  too 
good-looking,  in  the  first  place,  to  be  let  loose  in  a  room  full 
of  young  girls.  I  didn't  want  him  to  fall  in  love  just  then, 
— and  if  half  a  dozen  girls  fell  in  love  with  him,  as  they 
most  assuredly  would,  if  brought  into  too  near  relations  with 
him,  why,  there  was  no  telling  what  gratitude  and  natural 
sensibility  might  bring  about. 

Certificates  are,  for  the  most  part,  like  ostrich-eggs;  the 
giver  never  knows  what  is  hatched  out  of  them.  But  once 
in  a  thousand  times  they  act  as  curses  are  said  to, — come 
home  to  roost.  Give  them  often  enough,  until  it  gets  to  be 
a  mechanical  business,  and,  some  day  or  other,  you  will  get 
caught  warranting  somebody's  ice  not  to  melt  in  any  climate, 
or  somebody's  razors  to  be  safe  in  the  hands  of  the  youngest 
children. 

I  had  an  uneasy  feeling,  after  giving  this  certificate.  It 
might  be  all  right  enough;  but  if  it  happened  to  end  badly, 
I  should  always  reproach  myself.  There  was  a  chance,  cer 
tainly,  that  it  would  lead  him  or  others  into  danger  or 
wretchedness.  Anyone  who  looked  at  this  young  man  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  he  was  capable  of  fascinating  and  being 
fascinated.  Those  large,  dark  eyes  of  his  would  sink  into 
the  white  soul  of  a  young  girl  as  the  black  cloth  sunk  into 
the  snow  in  Franklin's  famous  experiment.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  the  rays  of  a  passionate  nature  should  ever  be  con 
centrated  on  them,  they  would  be  absorbed  into  the  very 
depths  of  his  nature,  and  then  his  blood  would  turn  to  flame 
and  burn  his  life  out  of  him,  until  his  cheeks  grew  as  white 
as  the  ashes  that  cover  a  burning  coal. 

I  wish  I  had  not  said  "  either  sex  "  in  my  certificate.  An 
academy  for  young  gentlemen,  now ;  that  sounds  cool  and  un 
imaginative.  A  boys'  school ;  that  would  be  a  very  good  place 
for  him ; — some  of  them  are  pretty  rough,  but  there  is  nerve 
enough  in  that  old  Wentworth  strain  of  blood;  he  can  give 
any  country  fellow,  of  the  common  stock,  twenty  pounds, 
and  hit  him  out  of  time  in  ten  minutes.  But  to  send  such 
a  young  fellow  as  that  out  a  girl's-nesting !  to  give  this  fal 
con  a  free  pass  into  all  the  dove-cotes !  I  was  a  fool, — that's 
all. 


THE    STUDENT   AND    HIS    CERTIFICATE.  13 

I  brooded  over  the  mischief  which  might  come  out  of  these 
two  words  until  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  were  charged  with 
destiny.  I  could  hardly  sleep  for  thinking  what  a  train  I 
might  have  been  laying,  which  might  take  a  spark  any  day, 
and  blow  up  nobody  knows  whose  peace  and  prospects.  What  I 
dreaded  most  was  one  of  those  miserable  matrimonial  mis 
alliances  where  a  young  fellow  who  does  not  know  himself 
as  yet  flings  his  magnificent  future  into  the  checked  aproii- 
lap  of  some  fresh-faced,  half-bred  country-girl,  no  more  fit 
to  be  mated  with  him  than  her  father's  horse  to  go  in 
double  harness  with  Flora  Temple.  To  think  of  the  eagle's 
wings  being  clipped  so  that  he  shall  never  lift  himself  over 
the  farm-yard  fence !  Such  things  happen,  and  always  must, 
— because,  as  one  of  us  said  a  while  ago,  a  man  always  loves 
a  woman,  and  a  woman  a  man,  unless  some  good  reason 
exists  to  the  contrary.  You  think  yourself  a  very  fastidious 
young  man,  my  friend;  but  there  are  probably  at  least  five 
thousand  young  women  in  these  United  States,  any  one  of 
whom  you  would  certainly  marry,  if  you  were  thrown  much 
into  her  company,  and  nobody  more  attractive  were  near, 
and  she  had  no  objection.  And  you,  my  dear  young  lady, 
justly  pride  yourself  on  your  discerning  delicacy;  but  if  I 
should  say  that  there  were  twenty  thousand  young  men,  any 
one  of  whom,  if  he  offered  his  hand  and  heart  under  favor 
able  circumstances,  you  would 

"First  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace," 

I  should  be  much  more  imprudent  than  I  mean  to  be,  and 
you  would,  no  doubt,  throw  down  a  story  in  which  I  hope  to 
interest  you. 

I  had  settled  it  in  my  mind  that  this  young  fellow  had  a 
career  marked  out  for  him.  He  should  begin  in  the  natural 
way,  by  taking  care  of  poor  patients  in  one  of  the  public 
charities,  and  work  his  way  up  to  a  better  kind  of  practice, 
— better,  that  is,  in  the  vulgar,  worldly  sense.  The  great  and 
good  Boerhaave  used  to  say,  as  I  remember  very  well,  that 
the  poor  were  his  best  patients ;  for  God  was  their  paymaster. 
But  everybody  is  not  as  patient  as  Boerhaave,  nor  as  deserv 
ing;  so  that  the  rich,  though  not,  perhaps,  the  best  patients, 
are  good  enough  for  common  practitioners.  I  suppose  Boer 
haave  put  up  with  them  when  he  could  not  get  poor  ones, 
as  he  left  his  daughter  two  millions  of  florins  when  he  died, 


14  ELSIE   VENNEE. 

Now  if  this  young  man  once  got  into  the  wide  streets, 
he  would  sweep  them  clear  of  his  rivals  of  the  same  stand 
ing;  and  as  I  was  getting  indifferent  to  business,  and  old 
Dr.  Kilham  was  growing  careless,  and  had  once  or  twice  pre 
scribed  morphine  when  he  meant  quinine,  there  would  soon 
be  an  opening  into  the  Doctor's  Paradise, — the  streets  with 
only  one  side  to  them.  Then  I  would  have  him  strike  a  bold 
stroke, — set  up  a  nice  little  coach,  and  be  driven  round  like 
a  first-class  London  doctor,  instead  of  coasting  about  in  a 
shabby  one-horse  concern  and  casting  anchor  opposite  his 
patients'  doors  like  a  Cape- Ann  fishing-smack.  By  the  time 
he  was  thirty,  he  would  have  knocked  the  social  pawns  out 
of  his  way,  and  be  ready  to  challenge  a  wife  from  the  row  of 
great  pieces  in  the  background.  I  would  not  have  a  man 
marry  above  his  level,  so  as  to  become  the  appendage  of  a 
powerful  family-connection ;  but  I  would  not  have  him  marry 
until  he  knew  his  level, — that  is,  again,  looking  at  the  mat 
ter  in  a  purely  worldly  point  of  view,  and  not  taking  the 
sentiments  at  all  into  consideration.  But  remember,  that 
a  young  man,  using  large  endowments  wisely  and  fortu 
nately,  may  put  himself  on  a  level  with  the  highest  in  the 
land  in  ten  brilliant  years  of  spirited,  unflagging  labor.  And 
to  stand  at  the  very  top  of  your  calling  in  a  great  city  is 
something  in  itself, — that  is,  if  you  like  money  and  influence, 
and  a  seat  on  the  platform  at  public  lectures,  and  gratuitous 
tickets  to  all  sorts  of  places  where  you  don't  want  to  go,  and, 
what  is  a  good  deal  better  than  any  of  these  things,  a  sense 
of  power,  limited,  it  may  be,  but  absolute  in  its  range,  so 
that  all  the  Cassars  and  Napoleons  would  have  to  stand  aside, 
if  they  came  between  you  and  the  exercise  of  your  special 
vocation. 

That  is  what  I  thought  this  young  fellow  might  have 
come  to ;  and  now  I  have  let  him  go  off  into  the  country  with 
my  certificate,  that  he  is  fit  to  teach  in  a  school  for  either 
sex !  Ten  to  one  he  will  run  like  a  moth  into  a  candle,  right 
into  one  of  those  girls'-nests,  and  get  tangled  up  in  some 
sentimental  folly  or  other,  and  there  will  be  the  end  of  him. 
Oh,  yes !  country  doctor, — half  a  dollar  a  visit, — drive,  drive, 
drive  all  day, — get  up  at  night  and  harness  your  own  horse, 
— drive  again  ten  miles  in  a  snow-storm, — shake  powders  out 
of  two  phials,  (pulv.  glycyrrhiz.,  pulv.  gum.  acac.  aa  partes 
equales,) — drive  back  again,  if  you  don't  happen  to  get 


THE    STUDENT    AND    HIS    CERTIFICATE.  15 

stuck  in  a  drift, — no  home,  no  peace,  no  continuous  meals, 
no  unbroken  sleep,  no  Sunday,  no  holiday,  no  social  inter 
course,  but  one  eternal  jog,  jog,  jog,  in  a  sulky,  until  you 
feel  like  the  mummy  of  an  Indian  who  had  been  buried  in 
the  sitting  posture,  and  was  dug  up  a  hundred  years  after 
wards  !  Why  didn't  I  warn  him  about  love  and  all  that  non 
sense?  Why  didn't  I  tell  him  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  yet  awhile?  Why  didn't  I  hold  up  to  him  those  awful 
examples  I  could  have  cited,  where  poor  young  fellows  who 
could  just  keep  themselves  afloat  have  hung  a  matrimonial 
millstone  round  their  necks,  taking  it  for  a  life-preserver? 
All  this  of  two  words  in  a  certificate ! 


mi  mi  r 


CHAPTEK  III. 

MR.   BERNARD  TRIES  HIS  HAND. 

Whether  the  Student  advertised  for  a  school,  or  whether 
he  fell  in  with  the  advertisement  of  a  school-committee,  is 
not  certain.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  long  before  he  found 
himself  the  head  of  a  large  district,  or,  as  it  was  called 
by  the  inhabitants,  "  deestric  "  school,  in  the  nourishing  in 
land  village  of  Pequawkett,  or,  as  it  is  commonly  spelt,  Pig- 
wacket  Center.  The  natives  of  this  place  would  be  sur 
prised,  if  they  should  hear  that  any  of  the  readers  of  a  work 
published  in  Boston  were  unacquainted  with  so  remarkable 
a  locality.  As,  however,  some  copies  of  it  may  be  read  at 
a  distance  from  this  distinguished  metropolis,  it  may  be  well 
to  give  a  few  particulars  respecting  the  place,  taken  from 
the  Universal  Gazetteer. 

PIGWACKET,  sometimes  spelt  Pequawkett.  A  post-village  and  town 
ship  in Co.,  State  of ,  situated  in  a  fine  agricultural  region,  2 

thriving  villages,  Pigwacket  Center  and  Smithville,  3  churches,  several 
echoolhouses,  and  many  handsome  private  residences.  Mink  River  runs 
through  the  town,  navigable  for  small  boats  after  heavy  rains.  Muddy 
Pond  at  N.  E.  section,  well  stocked  with  horn  pouts,  eels,  and  shiners. 
Products,  beef,  pork,  butter,  cheese.  Manufactures,  shoe-pegs,  clothes 
pins,  and  tin-ware.  Pop.  1373. 

The  reader  may  think  there  is  nothing  very  remarkable 
implied  in  this  description.  If,  however,  he  had  read  the 
town-history,  by  the  Rev.  Jabez  Grubb,  he  would  have 
learned,  that,  like  the  celebrated  Little  Pedlington,  it  was 
distinguished  by  many  very  remarkable  advantages.  Thus : — 

The  situation  of  Pigwacket  is  eminently  beautiful,  looking  down  the 
lovely  valley  of  Mink  River,  a  tributary  of  the  Musquash.  The  air  is  salu 
brious,  and  many  of  the  inhabitants  have  attained  great  age,  several 
having  passed  the  allotted  period  of  "three-score  years  and  ten  "  before 
succumbing  to  any  of  the  various  "ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to."  Widow  Com 
fort  Leevins  died  in  1836,  Ml.  LXXXVII.  years.  Venus,  an  African,  died 
in  1841,  supposed  to  be  C.  years  old.  The  people  are  distinguished  for 
intelligence,  as  has  been  frequently  remarked  by  eminent  lyceum-lecturers, 
who  have  invariably  spoken  in  the  highest  terms  of  a  Pigwacket  audience. 


MR.    BERNARD    TRIES    HIS   HAND.  17 

There  is  a  public  library,  containing  nearly  a  hundred  volumes,  free  to  all 
subscribers.  The  preached  word  is  well  attended,  there  is  a  flourishing 
temperance  society,  and  the  schools  are  excellent.  It  is  a  residence  admir 
ably  adapted  to  refined  families  who  relish  the  beauties  of  Nature  and  the 
charms  of  society.  The  honorable  John  Smith,  formerly  a  member  of 
the  State  Senate,  was  a  native  of  this  town. 

That  is  the  way  they  all  talk.  After  all,  it  is  probably 
pretty  much  like  other  inland  New  England  towns  in  point 
of  "  salubrity," — that  is,  gives  people  their  choice  of  dysen 
tery  or  fever  every  autumn,  with  a  season-ticket  for  consump 
tion,  good  all  the  year  round.  And  so  of  the  other  pretenses. 
"  Pigwacket  audience,"  forsooth !  Was  there  ever  an  audi 
ence  anywhere,  though  there  wasn't  a  pair  of  eyes  in  it 
brighter  than  pickled  oysters,  that  didn't  think  it  was  "  dis 
tinguished  for  intelligence  "  ? — "  The  preached  word  "  ! 
That  means  the  Rev.  Jabez  Grubb's  sermons.  "  Temperance 
society"!  "Excellent  schools"!  Ah,  that  is  just  what  we 
were  talking  about. 

The  truth  was,  that  District  No.  1,  Pigwacket  Center,  had 
had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  of  late  with  its  schoolmasters. 
The  committee  had  done  their  best,  but  there  were  a  number 
of  well-grown  and  pretty  rough  young  fellows  who  had  got 
the  upper  hand  of  the  masters,  and  meant  to  keep  it.  Two 
dynasties  had  fallen  before  the  uprising  of  this  fierce  de 
mocracy.  This  was  a  thing  that  used  to  be  not  very  uncom 
mon  ;  but  in  so  "  intelligent "  a  community  as  that  of 
Pigwacket  Center,  in  an  era  of  public  libraries  and  lyceum- 
lectures,  it  was  portentous  and  alarming. 

The  rebellion  began  under  the  ferule  of  Master  Weeks,  a 
slender  youth  from  a  country  college,  under-fed,  thin- 
blooded,  sloping-shouldered,  knock-kneed,  straight-haired, 
weak-bearded,  pale-eyed,  wide-pupilled,  half -colored ;  a  com 
mon  type  enough  in  in-door  races,  not  rich  enough  to  pick 
and  choose  in  their  alliances.  Nature  kills  off  a  good  many 
of  this  sort  in  the  first  teething-time,  a  few  in  later  child 
hood,  a  good  many  again  in  early  adolescence;  but  every 
now  and  then  one  runs  the  gantlet  of  her  various  diseases, 
or  rather  forms  of  one  disease,  and  grows  up,  as  Master 
Weeks  had  done. 

It  was  a  very  foolish  thing  for  him  to  try  to  inflict  per 
sonal  punishment  on  such  a  lusty  young  fellow  as  Abner 
Briggs,  Junior,  one  of  the  "  hardest  customers  "  in  the  way 


18  ELSIE  VENNER. 

of  a  rough-and-tumble  fight  that  were  anywhere  round.  No 
doubt  he  had  been  insolent,  but  it  would  have  been  better  to 
overlook  it.  It  pains  me  to  report  the  events  which  took 
place  when  the  master  made  his  rash  attempt  to  maintain 
his  authority.  Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  was  a  great  hulking 
fellow,  who  had  been  bred  to  butchering,  but  urged  by  his 
parents  to  attend  school,  in  order  to  learn  the  elegant  accom 
plishments  of  reading  and  writing,  in  which  he  was  sadly  de 
ficient.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  talking  and  laughing  pretty 
loud  in  school-hours,  of  throwing  wads  of  paper  reduced  to 
a  pulp  by  a  natural  and  easy  process,  of  occasional  insolence 
and  general  negligence.  One  of  the  soft,  but  unpleasant  mis 
siles  just  alluded  to,  flew  by  the  master's  head  one  morning, 
and  flattened  itself  against  the  wall,  where  it  adhered  in  the 
form  of  a  convex  mass  in  alto  rilievo.  The  master  looked 
round  and  saw  the  young  butcher's  arm  in  an  attitude  which 
pointed  to  it  unequivocally  as  the  source  from  which  the 
projectile  had  taken  its  flight. 

Master  Weeks  turned  pale.  He  must  "lick"  Abner 
Briggs,  Junior,  or  abdicate.  So  he  determined  to  lick  Abner 
Briggs,  Junior. 

"  Come  here,  Sir ! "  he  said ;  "  you  have  insulted  me  and 
outraged  the  decency  of  the  school-room  often  enough! 
Hold  out  your  hand !  " 

The  young  fellow  grinned  and  held  it  out.  The  master 
struck  at  it  with  his  black  ruler,  with  a  will  in  the  blow  and 
a  snapping  of  the  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  meant  to 
make  him  smart  this  time.  The  young  fellow  pulled  his 
hand  back  as  the  ruler  came  down,  and  the  master  hit  himself 
a  vicious  blow  on  the  right  knee.  There  are  things  no  man 
can  stand.  The  master  caught  the  refractory  youth  by  the 
collar  and  began  shaking  him,  or  rather  shaking  himself, 
against  him. 

"  Le'  go  o'  that  are  coat,  naow,"  said  the  fellow,  "  or  I'll 
make  ye!  'T'll  take  tew  on  ye  t'  handle  me,  I  tell  ye,  'n' 
then  ye  caant  dew  it !  " — and  the  young  pupil  returned  the 
master's  attention  by  catching  hold  of  his  collar. 

When  it  comes  to  that,  the  best  man,  not  exactly  in  the 
moral  sense,  but  rather  in  the  material,  and  more  especially 
the  muscular  point  of  view,  is  very  apt  to  have  the  best  of 
it,  irrespectively  of  the  merits  of  the  case.  So  it  happened 
now.  The  unfortunate  schoolmaster  found  himself  taking 


ME.    BERNARD    TRIES    HIS    HAND.  19 

the  measure  of  the  sanded  floor,  amidst  the  general  uproar 
of  the  school.  From  that  moment  his  ferule  was  broken,  and 
the  school-committee  very  soon  had  a  vacancy  to  fill. 

Master  Pigeon,  the  successor  of  Master  Weeks,  was  of  bet 
ter  stature,  but  loosely  put  together,  and  slender-limbed.  A 
dreadfully  nervous  kind  of  man  he  was,  walked  on  tiptoe, 
started  at  sudden  noises,  was  distressed  when  he  heard  a 
whisper,  had  a  quick,  suspicious  look,  and  was  always  saying, 
"  Hush !  "  and  putting  his  hands  to  his  ears.  The  boys  were 
not  long  in  finding  out  this  nervous  weakness,  of  course.U'' 
In  less  than  a  week  a  regular  system  of  torments  was  in 
augurated,  full  of  the  most  diabolical  malice  and  ingenuity. 
The  exercises  of  the  conspirators  varied  from  day  to  day,  but 
consisted  mainly  of  foot-scraping,  solos  on  the  slate-pencil, 
(making  it  screech  on  the  slate,)  falling  of  heavy  books,  at 
tacks  of  coughing,  banging  of  desk-lids,  boot-creaking,  with 
sounds  as  of  drawing  a  cork  from  time  to  time,  followed  by 
suppressed  chuckles. 

Master  Pigeon  grew  worse  and  worse  under  these  inflic 
tions.  The  rascally  boys  always  had  an  excuse  for  any  one 
trick  they  were  caught  at.  "  Couldn'  help  coughin',  Sir." 
"  Slipped  out  o'  m'  han',  Sir."  "  Didn'  go  to,  Sir."  "  Didn' 
dew  't  o'  purpose,  Sir."  And  so  on, — always  the  best  of  rea 
sons  for  the  most  outrageous  behavior.  The  master  weighed 
himself  at  the  grocer's  011  a  platform  balance,  some  ten  days 
after  he  began  keeping  the  school.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he 
weighed  himself  again.  He  had  lost  two  pounds.  At  the 
end  of  another  week  he  had  lost  five.  He  made  a  little  cal 
culation,  based  on  these  data,  from  which  he  learned  that  in 
a  certain  number  of  months,  going  on  at  this  rate,  he  should 
come  to  weigh  precisely  nothing  at  all ;  and  as  this  was  a  sum 
in  subtraction  he  did  not  care  to  work  out  in  practice,  Mas 
ter  Pigeon  took  to  himself  wings  and  left  the  school-commit 
tee  in  possession  of  a  letter  of  resignation  and  a  vacant  place 
to  fill  once  more. 

This  was  the  school  to  which  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  found 
himself  appointed  as  master.  He  accepted  the  place  condi 
tionally,  with  the  understanding  that  he  should  leave  it  at 
the  end  of  a  month,  if  he  were  tired  of  it. 

The  advent  of  Master  Langdon  to  Pigwacket  Center  cre 
ated  a  much  more  lively  sensation  than  had  attended  that 
of  either  of  his  predecessors.  Looks  go  a  good  way  all  the 


20  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

world  over,  and  though  there  were  several  good-looking  peo 
ple  in  the  place,  and  Major  Bush  was  what  the  natives  of  the 
town  called  a  "  hahnsome  mahn,"  that  is,  big,  fat,  and  red, 
yet  the  sight  of  a  really  elegant  young  fellow,  with  the 
natural  air  which  grows  up  with  carefully-bred  young  per 
sons,  was  a  novelty.  The  Brahmin  blood  which  came  from 
his  grandfather  as  well  as  from  his  mother,  a  direct 
descendant  of  the  old  Flynt  family,  well  known  by  the  fa 
mous  tutor,  Henry  Flynt,  (see  Cat.  Harv.  Anno  1693,)  had 
been  enlivened  and  enriched  by  that  of  the  Wentworths, 
which  had  had  a  good  deal  of  ripe  old  Madeira  and  other 
generous  elements  mingled  with  it,  so  that  it  ran  to  gout 
sometimes  in  the  old  folks  and  to  high  spirit,  warm  com 
plexion,  and  curly  hair  in  some  of  the  younger  ones.  The 
soft  curling  hair  Mr.  Bernard  had  inherited, — something, 
perhaps,  of  the  high  spirit;  but  that  we  shall  have  a  chance 
of  finding  out  by-and-by.  But  the  long  sermons  and  the 
frugal  board  of  his  Brahmin  ancestry,  with  his  own  habits 
of  study,  had  told  upon  his  color,  which  was  subdued  to 
something  more  of  delicacy  than  one  would  care  to  see  in  a 
young  fellow  with  rough  work  before  him.  This,  however, 
v  made  him  look  more  interesting,  or,  as  the  young  ladies  at 
Major  Bush's  said,  "  interestin'." 

When  Mr.  Bernard  showed  himself  at  meeting,  on  the 
first  Sunday  after  his  arrival,  it  may  be  supposed  that  a 
good  many  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  young  schoolmaster. 
There  was  something  heroic  in  his  coming  forward  so  readily 
to  take  a  place  which  called  for  a  strong  hand,  and  a  prompt, 
steady  will  to  guide  it.  In  fact,  his  position  was  that  of 
a  military  chieftain  on  the  eve  of  a  battle.  Everybody 
knew  everything  in  Pigwacket  Center;  and  it  was  an  under 
stood  thing  that  the  young  rebels  meant  to  put  down  the  new 
master,  if  they  could.  It  was  natural  that  the  two  prettiest 
girls  in  the  village,  called  in  the  local  dialect,  as  nearly  as 
our  limited  alphabet  will  represent  it,  Alminy  Cutterr,  and 
Arvilly  Braowne,  should  feel  and  express  an  interest  in  the 
good-looking  stranger,  and  that,  when  their  nattering  com 
ments  were  repeated  in  the  hearing  of  their  indigenous 
admirers,  among  whom  were  some  of  the  older  "  boys  "  of 
the  school,  it  should  not  add  to  the  amiable  disposition  of 
the  turbulent  youth. 

Monday  came,  and  the  new  schoolmaster  was  in  his  chair 


MR.    BERNARD    TRIES   HIS   HAND.  21 

at  the  upper  end  of  the  schoolhouse,  on  the  raised  platform. 
The  rustics  looked  at  his  handsome  face,  thoughtful,  peace 
ful,  pleasant,  cheerful,  but  sharply  cut  round  the  lips  and 
proudly  lighted  about  the  eyes.  The  ringleader  of  the  mis 
chief-makers,  the  young  butcher  who  has  before  figured  in 
this  narrative,  looked  at  him  stealthily,  whenever  he  got  a 
chance  to  study  him  unobserved;  for  the  truth  was,  he  felt 
uncomfortable,  whenever  he  found  the  large,  dark  eyes  fixed 
on  his  own  little,  sharp,  deep-set,  gray  ones:  But  he  man 
aged  to  study  him  pretty  well — first  his  face,  then  his  neck 
and  shoulders,  the  set  of  his  arms,  the  narrowing  at  the  loins, 
the  make  of  his  legs,  and  the  way  he  moved.  In  short,  he 
examined  him  as  he  would  have  examined  a  steer,  to  see 
what  he  could  do  and  how  he  would  cut  up.  If  he  could 
only  have  gone  to  him  and  felt  of  his  muscles,  he  would  have 
been  entirely  satisfied.  He  was  not  a  very  wise  youth,  but 
he  did  know  well  enough,  that  though  big  arms  and  legs  are 
very  good  things,  there  is  something  besides  size  that  goes 
to  make  a  man;  and  he  had  heard  stories  of  a  fighting-man, 
called  "  The  Spider,"  from  his  attenuated  proportions,  who 
was  yet  a  terrible  hitter  in  the  ring,  and  had  whipped  many  a 
big-limbed  fellow,  in  and  out  of  the  roped  arena. 

Nothing  could  be  smoother  than  the  way  in  which  every 
thing  went  on  for  the  first  day  or  two.  The  new  master  was 
so  kind  and  courteous,  he  seemed  to  take  everything  in  such 
a  natural  easy  way,  that  there  was  no  chance  to  pick  a  quar 
rel  with  him.  He  in  the  mean  time  thought  it  best  to  watch 
the  boys  and  young  men  for  a  day  or  two  with  as  little  show 
of  authority  as  possible.  It  was  easy  enough  to  see  that  he 
would  have  occasion  for  it  before  long. 

The  schoolhouse  was  a  grim,  old,  red,  one-story  building, 
perched  on  a  bare  rock  at  the  top  of  a  hill, — partly  because 
this  was  a  conspicuous  site  for  the  temple  of  learning,  and 
partly  because  land  is  cheap  where  there  is  no  chance  even 
for  rye  or  buckwheat,  and  the  very  sheep  find  nothing  to 
nibble.  About  the  little  porch  were  carved  initials  and  dates, 
at  various  heights,  from  the  stature  of  nine  to  that  of 
eighteen.  Inside  were  old  unpainted  desks, — unpainted,  but 
browned  with  the  umber  of  human  contact, — and  hacked  by 
innumerable  jack-knives.  It  was  long  since  the  walls  had 
been  whitewashed,  as  might  be  conjectured  from  the  various 
traces  left  upon  them,  wherever  idle  hands  or  sleepy  heads 


22  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

could  reach  them.  A  curious  appearance  was  noticeable  on 
various  higher  parts  of  the  wall,  namely,  a  wart-like  erup 
tion,  as  one  would  be  tempted  to  call  it,  being  in  reality  a 
crop  of  the  soft  missiles  before  mentioned,  which,  adhering 
in  considerable  numbers,  and  hardening  after  the  usual 
fashion  of  papier  mache,  formed  at  last  permanent  orna 
ments  of  the  edifice. 

The  young  master's  quick  eye  soon  noticed  that  a  partic 
ular  part  of  the  wall  was  most  favored  with  these  ornamental 
appendages.  Their  position  pointed  sufficiently  clearly  to 
the  part  of  the  room  they  came  from.  In  fact,  there  was  a 
nest  of  young  mutineers  just  there,  which  must  be  broken  up 
by  a  coup  d'etat.  This  was  easily  affected  by  redistributing  the 
seats  and  arranging  the  scholars  according  to  classes,  so  that 
a  mischievous  fellow,  charged  full  of  the  rebellious  impon 
derable,  should  find  himself  between  two  non-conductors,  in 
the  shape  of  small  boys  of  studious  habits.  It  was  managed 
quietly  enough,  in  such  a  plausible  sort  of  way  that  its  mo 
tive  was  not  thought  of.  But  its  effects  were  soon  felt ;  and 
then  began  a  system  of  correspondence  by  signs,  and  the 
throwing  of  little  scrawls  done  up  in  pellets,  and  announced 
by  preliminary  a'h'ms !  to  call  the  attention  of  the  distant 
youth  addressed.  Some  of  these  were  incendiary  documents, 

devoting  the  schoolmaster  to  the  lower  divinities,  as  "  a 

stuck-up  dandy,"  as  "  a purse-proud  aristocrat,"  as  a 

" sight  too  big  for  his,"  etc.,  and  holding  him  up  in  a 

variety  of  equally  forcible  phrases  to  the  indignation  of  the 
youthful  community  of  School  District  No.  1,  Pigwacket 
Center. 

Presently  the  draughtsman  of  the  school  set  a  caricature 
in  circulation,  labeled,  to  prevent  mistakes,  with  the  school 
master's  name.  An  immense  bell-crowned  hat,  and  a  long, 
pointed  swallow-tailed  coat  showed  that  the  artist  had  in  his 
mind  the  conventional  dandy,  as  shown  in  prints  of  thirty 
or  forty  years  ago,  rather  than  any  actual  human  aspect  of 
the  time.  But  it  was  passed  round  among  the  boys  and 
made  its  laugh,  helping  of  course  to  undermine  the  master's 
authority,  as  "  Punch  "  or  the  "  Charivari  "  takes  the  dignity 
out  of  an  obnoxious  minister.  One  morning,  on  going  to 
the  schoolroom,  Master  Langdon  found  an  enlarged  copy  of 
this  sketch,  with  its  label,  pinned  on  the  door.  He  took  it 
down,  smiled  a  little,  put  it  into  his  pocket,  and  entered 


ME.    BERNARD    TRIES    HIS    HAND.  23 

the  schoolroom.  An  insidious  silence  prevailed,  which 
looked  as  if  some  plot  were  brewing.  The  boys  were  ripe  for 
mischief,  but  afraid.  They  had  really  no  fault  to  find  with 
the  master,  except  that  he  was  dressed  like  a  gentleman, 
which  a  certain  class  of  fellows  always  consider  a  personal 
insult  to  themselves.  But  the  older  ones  were  evidently 
plotting,  and  more  than  once  the  warning  a'h'm!  was  heard, 
and  a  dirty  little  scrap  of  paper  rolled  into  a  wad  shot  from 
one  seat  to  another.  One  of  these  happened  to  strike  the 
stove-funnel,  and  lodged  on  the  master's  desk.  He  was  cool 
enough  not  to  seem  to  notice  it.  He  secured  it,  however, 
and  found  an  opportunity  to  look  at  it,  without  being  ob 
served  by  the  boys.  It  required  no  immediate  notice. 

He  who  should  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  looking  upon 
Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  the  next  morning,  when  his  toilet  was 
about  half  finished,  would  have  had  a  very  pleasant  gratui 
tous  exhibition.  First  he  buckled  the  strap  of  his  trousers 
pretty  tightly.  Then  he  took  up  a  pair  of  heavy  dumb-bells, 
and  swung  them  for  a  fiew  minutes ;  then  two  great  "  Indian 
clubs,"  with  which  he  enacted  all  sorts  of  impossible-looking 
feats.  His  limbs  were  not  very  large,  nor  his  shoulders 
remarkably  broad;  but  if  you  knew  as  much  of  the  muscles 
as  all  persons  who  look  at  statues  and  pictures  with  a  critical 
eye  ought  to  have  learned, — if  you  knew  the  trapezius,  lying 
diamond-shaped  over  the  back  and  shoulders  like  a  monk's 
cowl, — or  the  deltoid,  which  caps  the  shoulder  like  an  epau 
let, — or  the  triceps,  which  furnishes  the  calf  of  the  upper 
arm, — or  the  hard-knotted  biceps, — any  of  the  great  sculp 
tural  landmarks,  in  fact, — you  would  have  said  there  was  a 
pretty  show  of  them,  beneath  the  white  satiny  skin  of  Mr. 
Bernard  Langdon.  And  if  you  had  seen  him,  when  he  had 
laid  down  the  Indian  clubs,  catch  hold  of  a  leather  strap 
that  hung  from  the  beam  of  the  old-fashioned  ceiling,  and 
lift  and  lower  himself  over  and  over  again  by  his 
left  hand  alone,  you  might  have  thought  it  a  very  simple 
and  easy  thing  to  do,  until  you  tried  to  do  it  yourself.  Mr. 
Bernard  looked  at  himself  with  the  eye  of  an  expert. 
"  Pretty  well !  "  he  said ;  "  not  so  much  fallen  off  as  I  ex 
pected."  Then  he  set  up  his  bolster  in  a  very  knowing  sort 
of  way,  and  delivered  two  or  three  blows  straight  as  rulers 
and  swift  as  winks.  "  That  will  do,"  he  said.  Then,  as  if 
determined  to  make  a  certainty  of  his  condition,  he  took  a 


24  ELSIE    VENNER. 

dynamometer  from  one  of  the  drawers  in  his  old  veneered 
bureau.  First  he  squeezed  it  with  his  two  hands.  Then  he 
placed  it  on  the  floor  and  lifted,  steadily,  strongly.  The 
springs  creaked  and  cracked;  the  index  swept  with  a  great 
stride  far  up  into  the  high  figures  of  the  scale ;  it  was  a  good 
lift.  He  was  satisfied.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed 
and  looked  at  his  cleanly-shaped  arms.  "  If  I  strike  one 
of  those  boobies,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  spoil  him,"  he  said. 
Yet  this  young  man,  when  weighed  with  his  class  at  the 
college,  could  barely  turn  one  hundred  and  forty-two 
pounds  in  the  scale, — not  a  heavy  weight,  surely;  but  some 
of  the  middle  weights,  as  the  present  English  champion,  for 
instance,  seem  to  be  of  a  far  finer  quality  of  muscle  than 
the  bulkier  fellows. 

The  master  took  his  breakfast  with  a  good  appetite  that 
morning,  but  was  perhaps  rather  more  quiet  than  usual. 
After  breakfast  he  went  upstairs  and  put  on  a  light  loose 
frock,  instead  of  that  which  he  commonly  wore,  which  was 
a  close-fitting  and  rather  stylish  one.  On  his  way  to  school 
he  met  Alminy  Cutterr,  who  happened  to  be  walking  in  the 
other  direction.  "  Good  morning,  Miss  Cutter,"  he  said ;  for 
she  and  another  young  lady  had  been  introduced  to  him,  on 
a  former  occasion,  in  the  usual  phrase  of  polite  society  in 
presenting  ladies  to  gentlemen, — "  Mr.  Langdon,  let  me  make 
y'  acquainted  with  Miss  Cutterr; — let  me  make  y'  ac 
quainted  with  Miss  Braowne."  So  he  said,  "  Good-morn 
ing  " ;  to  which  she  replied,  "  Good-mornin',  Mr.  Langdon. 
Haow's  your  haalth  ? "  The  answer  to  this  question  ought 
naturally  to  have  been  the  end  of  the  talk;  but  Alminy 
Cutterr  lingered  and  looked  as  if  she  had  something  more 
on  her  mind. 

A  young  fellow  does  not  require  a  great  experience  to 
read  a  simple  country-girl's  face  as  if  it  were  a  signboard. 
Alminy  was  a  good  soul,  with  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes, 
kind-hearted  as  she  could  be,  and  it  was  out  of  the  question 
for  her  to  hide  her  thoughts  or  feelings  like  a  fine  lady. 
Her  bright  eyes  were  moist  and  her  red  cheeks  paler  than 
their  wont,  as  she  said,  with  her  lips  quivering, — "  Oh,  Mr. 
Langdon,  them  boys  '11  be  the  death  of  ye,  if  ye  don't  take 
caar !  " 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  my  dear  ? "  said  Mr.  Bernard. 
Don't  think  there  was  anything  very  odd  in  that  "  my  dear," 


MR.    BERNARD    TRIES    HIS    HAKD.  25 

at  the  second  interview  with  a  village  belle ; — some  of  these 
woman-tamers  call  a  girl  "My  dear,"  after  five  minutes' 
acquaintance,  and  it  sounds  all  right  as  they  say  it.  But 
you  had  better  not  try  it  at  a  venture. 

It  sounded  all  right  to  Alminy,  as  Mr.  Bernard  said  it. 
"  I'll  tell  ye  what's  the  mahtterr,"  she  said,  in  a  frightened 
voice.  "  Ahbner's  go'n'  to  car'  his  dog,  'n'  he'll  set  him  on 
ye  'z  sure  'z  y'  V  alive.  'T  's  the  same  cretur  that  haaf  eat 
up  Eben  Squires's  little  Jo,  a  year  come  nex'  Faast-day." 

Now  this  last  statement  was  undoubtedly  over-colored;  as 
little  Jo  Squires  was  running  about  the  village, — with  an 
ugly  scar  on  his  arm,  it  is  true,  where  the  beast  had  caught 
him  with  his  teeth,  on  the  occasion  of  the  child's  taking 
liberties  with  him,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  with 
a  good-tempered  Newfoundland  dog,  who  seemed  to  like 
being  pulled  and  hauled  round  by  children.  After  this  the 
creature  was  commonly  muzzled,  and,  as  he  was  fed  on  raw 
meat  chiefly,  was  always  ready  for  a  fight, — which  he  was 
occasionally  indulged  in,  when  anything  stout  enough  to 
match  him  could  be  found  in  any  of  the  neighboring  villages. 

Tiger,  or,  more  briefly,  Tige,  the  property  of  Abner  Briggs, 
Junior,  belonged  to  a  species  not  distinctly  named  in  scien 
tific  books,  but  well  known  to  our  country-folks  under  the 
name  "Yallah  dog."  They  do  not  use  this  expression  as 
they  would  say  black  dog  or  white  dog,  but  with  almost  as 
definite  a  meaning  as  when  they  speak  of  a  terrier  or  a 
spaniel.  A  "  yallah  dog,"  is  a  large  canine  brute,  of  a  dingy 
old-flannel  color,  of  no  particular  breed  except  his  own,  who 
hangs  round  a  tavern  or  a  butcher's  shop,  or  trots  alongside  ; 
of  a  team,  looking  as  if  he  were  disgusted  with  the  world, 
and  the  world  with  him.  Our  inland  population,  while  they 
tolerate  him,  speak  of  him  with  contempt.  Old  -  — ,  of 
Meredith  Bridge,  used  to  twit  the  sun  for  not  shining  on 
cloudy  days,  swearing,  that,  if  he  hung  up  his  "  yallah  dog," 
he  would  make  a  better  show  of  daylight.  A  country  fel 
low,  abusing  a  horse  of  his  neighbor's,  vowed,  that,  "  if  he 
had  such  a  hoss,  he'd  swap  him  for  a  '  yallah  dog,' — and 
then  shoot  the  dog." 

Tige  was  an  ill-conditioned  brute  by  nature,  and  art  had 
not  improved  him  by  cropping  his  ears  and  tail  and  invest 
ing  him  with  a  spiked  collar.  He  bore  on  his  person,  also, 
various  not  ornamental  scars,  marks  of  eld  battles;  for  Tige 


26  ELSIE    VENNER. 

had  fight  in  him,  as  was  said  before,  and  as  might  be  guessed 
by  a  certain  bluntness  about  the  muzzle,  with  a  projection 
of  the  lower  jaw,  which  looked  as  if  there  might  be  a  bull 
dog  stripe  among  the  numerous  bar-sinisters  of  his  lineage. 

It  was  hardly  fair,  however,  to  leave  Alminy  Cutterr 
waiting  while  this  piece  of  natural  history  was  telling.  As 
she  spoke  of  little  Jo,  who  had  been  "  haaf  gat  up  "  by  Tige, 
she  could  not  contain  her  sympathies,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Why,  my  dear  little  soul,"  said  Mr.  Bernard,  "  what  are 
you  worried  about?  I  used  to  play  with  a  bear  when  I  was 
a  boy ;  and  the  bear  used  to  hug  me,  and  I  used  to  kiss  him, 

It  was  too  bad  of  Mr.  Bernard,  only  the  second  time  he 
had  seen  Alminy;  but  her  kind  feelings  had  touched  him, 
and  that  seemed  the  most  natural  way  of  expressing  his 
gratitude.  Alminy  looked  round  to  see  if  anybody  was 
near;  she  saw  nobody,  so  of  course  it  would  do  no  good  to 
"  holler."  She  saw  nobody ;  but  a  stout  young  fellow,  lead 
ing  a  yellow  dog,  muzzled,  saw  her  through  a  crack  in  a 
picket  fence,  not  a  great  way  off  the  road.  Many  a  year  he 
had  been  "  hangin'  'raoun' "  Alminy,  and  never  did  he  see 
any  encouraging  look,  or  hear  any  "  Behave,  naow !  "  or 
"  Come,  naow,  a'n't  ye  'shamed  ? "  or  other  forbidding  phrase 
of  acquiescence,  such  as  village  belles  understand  as  well  as 
ever  did  the  nymph  who  fled  to  the  willows  in  the  eclogue 
we  all  remember. 

No  wonder  he  was  furious,  when  he  saw  the  schoolmaster, 
who  had  never  seen  the  girl  until  within  a  week,  touching 
with  his  lips  those  rosy  cheeks  which  he  had  never  dared  to 
approach.  But  that  was  all;  it  was  a  sudden  impulse;  and 
the  master  turned  away  from  the  young  girl,  laughing,  and 
telling  her  not  to  fret  herself  about  him, — he  would  take 
care  of  himself. 

So  Master  Langdon  walked  on  toward  his  schoolhouse,  not 
displeased,  perhaps,  with  his  little  adventure,  nor  immensely 
elated  by  it ;  for  he  was  one  of  the  natural  class  of  the  sex- 
subduers  and  had  had  many  a  smile  without  asking,  which 
had  been  denied  to  the  feeble  youth  who  try  to  win  favor 
by  pleading  their  passion  in  rhyme,  and  even  to  the  more 
formidable  approaches  of  young  officers  in  volunteer  com 
panies,  considered  by  many  to  be  quite  irresistible  to  the 
fair  who  have  once  beheld  them  from  their  windows  in  the 


MR.    BERNARD    TRIES    HIS   HAND.  27 

epaulets  and    plumes   and  sashes  of    the  "  Pigwacket    In- 
vincibles,"  or  the  "Hackmatack  Hangers." 

Master  Langdon  took  his  seat  and  began  the  exercises  of 
his  school.  The  smaller  boys  recited  their  lessons  well 
enough,  but  some  of  the  larger  ones  were  negligent  and 
surly.  He  noticed  one  or  two  of  them  looking  toward  the 
door,  as  if  expecting  somebody  or  something  in  that  direc 
tion.  At  half -past  nine  o'clock,  Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  who 
had  not  yet  shown  himself,  made  his  appearance.  He  was 
followed  by  his  "  yallah  dog,"  without  his  muzzle,  who 
squatted  down  very  grimly  near  the  door,  and  gave  a  wolfish 
look  round  the  room,  as  if  he  were  considering  which  was 
the  plumpest  boy  to  begin  with.  The  young  butcher,  mean 
while,  went  to  his  seat,  looking  somewhat  flushed,  except 
round  the  lips,  which  were  hardly  as  red  as  common,  and 
set  pretty  sharply. 

"  Put  out  that  dog,  Abner  Briggs ! "  The  master  spoke 
as  the  captain  speaks  to  the  helmsman,  when  there  are  rocks 
foaming  at  the  lips,  right  under  his  lee. 

Abner  Briggs  answered  as  the  helmsman  answers,  when 
he  knows  he  has  a  mutinous  crew  round  him  that  mean  to 
run  the  ship  on  the  reef,  and  is  one  of  the  mutineers  him 
self.  "  Put  him  aout  y'self,  'f  ye  a'n't  af eard  on  him !  " 

The  master  stepped  into  the  aisle.  The  great  cur  showed 
his  teeth,  and  the  devilish  instincts  of  his  old  wolf-ancestry 
looked  out  of  his  eyes,  and  flashed  from  his  sharp  tusks,  and 
yawned  in  his  wide  mouth  and  deep  red  gullet. 

The  movements  of  animals  are  so  much  quicker  than  those 
of  human  beings  commonly  are,  that  they  avoid  blows  as 
easily  as  one  of  us  steps  out  of  the  way  of  an  ox-cart.  It 
must  be  a  very  stupid  dog  that  lets  himself  be  run  over  by 
a  fast  driver  in  his  gig;  he  can  jump  out  of  the  wheel's  way 
after  the  tire  has  already  touched  him.  So,  while  one  is 
lifting  a  stick  to  strike  or  drawing  back  his  foot  to  kick, 
the  beast  makes  his  spring,  and  the  blow  or  the  kick  comes 
too  late. 

It  was  not  so  this  time.     The  master  was  a  fencer,  and ' 
something  of  a  boxer ;  he  had  played  at  single-stick,  and  was  i 
used  to  watching  an  adversary's  eye  and  coming  down  on 
him  without  any  of  those  premonitory  symptoms  by  which 
unpracticed  persons  show  long  beforehand  what  mischief 
they  meditate. 


28  ELSIE  VENNER. 

"  Out  with  you ! "  he  said,  fiercely,  and  explained  what  he 
meant  by  a  sudden  flash  of  his  foot  that  clashed  the  yellow 
dog's  white  teeth  together  like  the  springing  of  a  bear-trap. 
The  cur  knew  he  had  found  his  master  at  the  first  word  and 
glance,  as  low  animals  011  four  legs,  or  a  smaller  number, 
always  do;  and  the  blow  took  him  so  by  surprise,  that  it 
curled  him  up  in  an  instant,  and  he  went  bundling  out  of 
the  open  schoolhouse-door  with  a  most  pitiable  yelp,  and 
his  stump  of  a  tail  shut  down  as  close  as  his  owner  ever  shut 
the  short,  stubbed  blade  of  his  jack-knife. 

It  was  time  for  the  other  cur  to  find  who  his  master  was. 

"  Follow  your  dog,  Abner  Briggs !  "  said  Master    Langdon. 

The  stout  butcher-youth  looked  round,  but  the  rebels  were 
all  cowed  and  sat  still. 

"  I'll  go  when  I'm  ready,"  he  said,  "  'n'  I  guess  I  won't  go 
afore  I'm  ready." 

"  You're  ready  now,"  said  Master  Langdon,  turning  up 
his  cuffs  so  that  the  little  boys  noticed  the  yellow  gleam  of 
a  pair  of  gold  sleeve-buttons,  once  worn  by  Colonel  Percy 
Wentworth,  famous  in  the  Old  French  War. 

Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  did  not  apparently  think  he  was 
ready,  at  any  rate;  for  he  rose  up  in  his  place,  and  stood 
with  clenched  fists,  defiant,  as  the  master  strode  towards 
him.  The  master  knew  the  fellow  was  really  frightened, 
for  all  his  looks,  and  that  he  must  have  no  time  to  rally. 
So  he  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  collar,  and,  with  one 
great  pull,  had  him  out  over  his  desk  and  on  the  open  floor. 
He  gave  him  a  sharp  fling  backwards  and  stood  looking  at 
him. 

The  rough-and-tumble  fighters  all  clinch,  as  everybody 
knows;  and  Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  was  one  of  that  kind. 
He  remembered  how  he  had  floored  Master  Weeks,  and  he 
had  just  "  spunk "  enough  left  in  him  to  try  to  repeat  his 
former  successful  experiment  on  the  new  master.  He  sprang 
at  him,  open-handed,  to  clutch  him.  So  the  master  had  to 
strike, — once,  but  very  hard,  and  just  in  the  place  to  tell. 
No  doubt,  the  authority  that  doth  hedge  a  schoolmaster 
added  to  the  effect  of  the  blow;  but  the  blow  was  itself  a 
neat  one,  and  did  not  require  to  be  repeated. 

"  Now  go  home,"  said  the  master,  "  and  don't  let  me  see 
you  or  your  dog  here  again."  And  he  turned  his  cuffs  down 
over  the  gold  sleeve-buttons. 


MB.    BERNARD    TKIES    HIS    HAND.  29 

This  finished  the  great  Pigwacket  Center  School  rebellion. 
What  could  be  done  with  a  master  who  was  so  pleasant  as 
long  as  the  boys  behaved  decently,  and  such  a  terrible  fellow 
when  he  got  "  riled,"  as  they  called  it  ?  In  a  week's  time 
everything  was  reduced  to  order,  and  the  school-committee 
were  delighted.  The  master,  however,  had  received  a  prop 
osition  so  much  more  agreeable  and  advantageous,  that  he 
informed  the  committee  he  should  leave  at  the  end  of  his 
month,  having  in  his  eye  a  sensible  and  energetic  young 
college-graduate  who  would  be  willing  and  fully  competent 
to  take  his  place. 

So,  at  the  expiration  of  the  appointed  time,  Bernard  Lang- 
don,  late  master  of  the  School  District  No.  1,  Pigwacket 
Center,  took  his  departure  from  that  place  for  another  lo 
cality,  whither  we  shall  follow  him,  carrying  with  him  the 
regrets  of  the  committee,  of  most  of  the  scholars,  and  of 
several  young  ladies ;  also  two  locks  of  hair,  sent  unbeknown 
to  payrents,  one  dark  and  one  warmish  auburn,  inscribed 
with  the  respective  initials  of  Alminy  Cutterr  and  Arvilly 
Braowne. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  MOTH  FLIES  INTO  THE  CANDLE. 

The  invitation  which  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  had  accepted 
came  from  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the  "  Apollinean  Fe 
male  Institute,"  a  school  for  the  education  of  young  ladies, 
situated  in  the  flourishing  town  of  Rockland.  This  was  an 
establishment  on  a  considerable  scale,  in  which  a  hundred 
scholars  or  thereabouts  were  taught  the  ordinary  English 
branches,  several  of  the  modern  languages,  something  of 
Latin,  if  desired,  with  a  little  natural  philosophy,  meta 
physics,  and  rhetoric,  to  finish  off  with  in  the  last  year,  and 
music  at  any  time  when  they  would  pay  for  it.  At  the  close 
of  their  career  in  the  Institute,  they  were  submitted  to  a 
grand  public  examination,  and  received  diplomas  tied  in 
blue  ribbons,  which  proclaimed  them  with  a  great  flourish 
of  capitals  to  be  graduates  of  the  Apollinean  Female  Insti 
tute. 

Rockland  was  a  town  of  no  inconsiderable  pretensions. 
It  was  ennobled  by  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain, — called 
by  the  working-folks  of  the  place  "  the  Maounting," — which 
sufficiently  showed  that  it  was  the  principal  high  land  of 
the  district  in  which  it  was  situated.  It  lay  to  the  south 
of  this,  and  basked  in  the  sunshine  as  Italy  stretches  herself 
before  the  Alps.  To  pass  from  the  town  of  Tamarack  on 
the  north  of  the  mountain  to  Rockland  on  the  south  was  like 
crossing  from  Coire  to  Chiavenna. 

There  is  nothing  gives  glory  and  grandeur  and  romance 
and  mystery  to  a  place  like  the  impending  presence  of  a 
high  mountain.  Our  beautiful  Northampton  with  its  fair 
meadows  and  noble  stream  is  lovely  enough,  but  owes  its 
surpassing  attraction  to  those  twin  summits  which  brood 
over  it  like  living  presences,  looking  down  into  its  streets 
as  if  they  were  its  tutelary  divinities,  dressing  and  undress 
ing  their  green  shrines,  robing  themselves  in  jubilant  sun 
shine  or  in  sorrowing  clouds,  and  doing  penance  in  the  snowy 
shroud  of  winter,  as  if  they  had  living  hearts  under  their 

80 


THE    MOTH    FLIES    INTO    THE    CANDLE.  31 

rocky  ribs  and  changed  their  mood  like  the  children  of  the 
soil  at  their  feet,  who  grow  up  under  their  almost  parental 
smiles  and  frowns.  Happy  is  the  child  whose  first  dreams 
of  heaven  are  blended  with  the  evening  glories  of  Mount 
Holyoke,  when  the  sun  is  firing  its  treetops,  and  gilding 
the  white  walls  that  mark  its  one  human  dwelling!  If  the 
other  and  the  wilder  of  the  two  summits  has  a  scowl  of 
terror  in  its  overhanging  brows,  yet  is  it  a  pleasing  fear  to 
look  upon  its  savage  solitudes  through  the  barred  nursery- 
windows  in  the  heart  of  the  sweet,  companionable  village. 
And  how  the  mountains  love  their  children!  The  sea  is  of 
a  facile  virtue,  and  will  run  to  kiss  the  first  comer  in  any 
port  he  visits ;  but  the  chaste  mountains  sit  apart,  and  show 
their  faces  only  in  the  midst  of  their  own  families. 

The  mountain  which  kept  watch  to  the  north  of  Rock- 
land  lay  waste  and  almost  inviolate  through  much  of  its 
domain.  The  catamount  still  glared  from  the  branches  of 
its  old  hemlocks  on  the  lesser  beasts  that  strayed  beneath 
him.  It  was  not  long  since  a  wolf  had  wandered  down, 
famished  in  the  winter's  dearth,  and  left  a  few  bones  and 
some  tufts  of  wool  of  what  had  been  a  lamb  in  the  morning. 
ISTay,  there  were  broad-footed  tracks  in  the  snow  only  two 
years  previously,  which  could  not  be  mistaken;  the  black 
bear  alone  could  have  set  that  plantigrade  seal,  and  little 
children  must  come  home  early  from  school  and  play,  for  he 
is  an  indiscriminate  feeder  when  he  is  hungry,  and  a  little 
child  would  not  come  amiss  when  other  game  was  wanting. 

But  these  occasional  visitors  may  have  been  mere  wan 
derers,  which,  straying  along  in  the  woods  by  day,  and  per 
haps  stalking  through  the  streets  of  still  villages  by  night, 
had  worked  their  way  along  down  from  the  ragged  moun 
tain-spurs  of  higher  latitudes.  The  one  feature  of  The 
Mountain  that  shed  the  brownest  horror  on  its  woods  was 
the  existence  of  the  terrible  region  known  as  Rattlesnake 
Ledge,  and  still  tenanted  by  those  damnable  reptiles,  which 
distill  a  fiercer  venom  under  our  cold  northern  sky  than  the  j 
cobra  himself  in  the  land  of  tropical  spices  and  poisons. 

From  the  earliest  settlement  of  the  place,  this  fact  had 
been,  next  to  the  Indians,  the  reigning  nightmare  of  the 
inhabitants.  It  was  easy  enough,  after  a  time,  to  drive 
away  the  savages ;  for  "  a  screeching  Indian  Divell,"  as  our 
fathers  called  him,  could  not  crawl  into  the  crack  of  a  rock 


32  ELSIE   VENNER. 

to  escape  from  his  pursuers.  But  the  venomous  population 
of  Rattlesnake  Ledge  had  a  Gibraltar  for  their  fortress  that 
might  have  defied  the  siege-train  dragged  to  the  walls  of 
Sebastopol.  In  its  deep  embrasures  and  its  impregnable 
casemates  they  reared  their  families,  they  met  in  love  or 
wrath,  they  twined  together  in  family  knots,  they  hissed  de 
fiance  in  hostile  clans,  they  fed,  slept,  hibernated,  and  in  due 
time  died  in  peace.  Many  a  foray  had  the  town's-people  made, 
and  many  a  stuffed  skin  was  shown  as  a  trophy, — nay,  there 
were  families  where  the  children's  first  toy  was  made  from 
the  warning  appendage  that  once  vibrated  to  the  wrath  of 
one  of  these  "  cruel  serpents."  Sometimes  one  of  them, 
coaxed  out  by  a  warm  sun,  would  writhe  himself  down  the 
hillside  into  the  roads,  up  the  walks  that  led  to  houses, — 
worse  than  this,  into  the  long  grass,  where  the  bare-footed 
mowers  would  soon  pass  with  their  swinging  scythes, — more 
rarely  into  houses, — and  on  one  memorable  occasion,  early 
in  the  last  century,  into  the  meeting  house,  where  he  took 
a  position  on  the  pulpit-stairs,  as  narrated  in  the  "  Account 
of  Some  Remarkable  Providences,"  etc.,  where  it  is  sug 
gested  that  a  strong  tendency  of  the  Rev.  Didymus  Bean, 
the  Minister  at  that  time,  towards  the  Arminian  Heresy  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  that  the  Serpent 
supposed  to  have  been  killed  on  the  Pulpit-Stairs  was  a  false 
show  of  the  Daemon's  Contrivance,  he  having  come  in  to 
listen  to  a  Discourse  which  was  a  sweet  Savour  in  his  Nos 
trils,  and,  of  course,  not  being  capable  of  being  killed  Him 
self.  Others  said,  however,  that,  though  there  was  good 
Reason  to  think  it  was  a  Da3mon,  yet  he  did  not  come  with 
Intent  to  bite  the  Heel  of  that  faithful  Servant, — etc. 

One  Gilson  is  said  to  have  died  of  the  bite  of  a  rattle 
snake  in  this  town  early  in  the  present  century.  After  this 
there  was  a  great  snake-hunt,  in  which  very  many  of  these 
venomous  beasts  were  killed, — one  in  particular,  said  to  have 
been  as  big  round  as  a  stout  man's  arm,  and  to  have  had 
no  less  than  forty  joints  to  his  rattle, — indicating,  according 
to  some,  that  he  had  lived  forty  years,  but,  if  we  might  put 
any  faith  in  the  Indian  tradition,  that  he  had  killed  forty 
human  beings, — an  idle  fancy,  clearly.  This  hunt,  however, 
had  no  permanent  effect  in  keeping  down  the  serpent  popu 
lation.  Viviparous  creatures  are  a  kind  of  specie-paying 
Jot,  but  oviparous  ones  only  give  their  notes,  as  it  were, 


THE    MOTH    FLIES    INTO    THE    CANDLE.  33 

for  a  future  brood, — an  egg  being,  so  to  speak,  a  promise  to 
pay  a  young  one  by-and-by,  if  nothing  happen.  Now  the 
domestic  habits  of  the  rattlesnake  are  not  studied  very 
closely,  for  obvious  reasons;  but  it  is,  no  doubt,  to  all  in 
tents  and  purposes,  oviparous.  Consequently  it  has  large 
families,  and  is  not  easy  to  kill  out. 

In  the  year  184 — ,  a  melancholy  proof  was  afforded  to  the 
inhabitants  of  Rockland,  that  the  brood  which  infested  The 
Mountain  was  not  extirpated.  A  very  interesting  young 
married  woman,  detained  at  home  at  the  time  by  the  state 
of  her  health,  was  bitten  in  the  entry  of  her  own  house  by 
a  rattlesnake  which  had  .found  its  way  down  from  The 
Mountain.  Owing  to  the"  almost  instant  employment  of 
powerful  remedies,  the  bite  did  not  prove  immediately  fatal ; 
but  she  died  within  a  few  months  of  the  time  when  she  was 
bitten. 

All  this  seemed  to  throw  a  lurid  kind  of  shadow  over  The 
Mountain.  Yet,  as  many  years  passed  without  any  accident, 
people  grew  comparatively  careless,  and  it  might  rather  be 
said  to  add  a  fearful  kind  of  interest  to  the  romantic  hill 
side,  that  the  banded  reptiles,  which  had  been  the  terror  of 
the  red  men  for  nobody  knows  how  many  thousand  years, 
were  there  still,  with  the  same  poison-bags  and  spring-teeth 
at  the  white  men's  service,  if  they  meddled  with  them. 

The  other  natural  features  of  Rockland  were  such  as 
many  of  our  pleasant  country  towns  can  boast  of.  A  brook 
came  tumbling  down  the  mountain-side,  and  skirted  the 
most  thickly  settled  portion  of  the  village.  In  the  parts  of 
its  course  where  it  ran  through  the  woods,  the  water  looked 
almost  as  brown  as  coffee  flowing  from  its  urn, — to  say  like 
smoky  quartz  would  perhaps  give  a  better  idea, — but  in  the 
open  plain  it  sparkled  over  the  pebbles  white  as  a  queen's 
diamonds.  There  were  huckleberry-pastures  '  on  the  lower 
flanks  of  The  Mountain,  with  plenty  of  the  sweet-scented 
bayberry  mingled  with  the  other  bushes.  In  other  fields 
grew  great  store  of  high-bush  blackberries.  Along  the  road 
side  were  barberry-bushes,  hung  all  over  with  bright  red 
coral  pendants  in  autumn  and  far  into  the  winter.  Then 
there  were  swamps  set  thick  with  dingy  alders,  where  the 
three-leaved  arum  and  the  skunk's-cabbage  grew  broad  and 
succulent, — shelving  down  into  black  boggy  pools  here  and 
there,  at  the  edge  of  which  the  green  frog,  stupidest  of  his 


34  ELSIE   VENNER. 

tribe,  sat  waiting  to  be  victimized  by  boy  or  snapping-turtle 
long  after  the  shy  and  agile  leopard-frog  had  taken  the  six- 
foot  spring  that  plumped  him  into  the  middle  of  the  pool. 
And  on  the  neighboring  banks  the  maiden-hair  spread  its 
flat  disk  of  embroidered  fronds  on  the  wire-like  stem  that 
glistened  polished  and  brown  as  the  darkest  tortoise-shell, 
and  pale  violets,  cheated  by  the  cold  skies  of  their  hues  and 
perfume,  sunned  themselves  like  white-cheeked  invalids. 
Over  these  rose  the  old  forest-trees, — the  maple,  scarred  with 
the  wounds  which  had  drained  away  its  sweet  life-blood, — 
the  beech,  its  smooth  gray  bark  mottled  so  as  to  look  like 
the  body  of  one  of  those  great  snakes  of  old  that  used  to 
frighten  armies, — always  the  mark  of  lovers'  knives,  as  in 
the  days  of  Musidora  and  her  swain, — the  yellow  birch, 
rough  as  the  breast  of  Silenus  in  old  marbles, — the  wild 
cherry,  its  little  bitter  fruit  lying  unheeded  at  its  foot, — 
and  soaring  over  all,  the  huge,  coarse-barked,  splintery- 
limbed,  dark-mantled  hemlock,  in  the  depth  of  whose  aerial 
solitudes  the  crow  brooded  on  her  nest  unscared,  and  the 
gray  squirrel  lived  unharmed  till  his  incisors  grew  to  look 
like  ram's-horns. 

Rockland  would  have  been  but  half  a  town  without  its 
pond;  Quinnepeg  Pond  was  the  name  of  it,  but  the  young 
ladies  of  the  Apollinean  Institute  were  very  anxious  that  it 
should  be  called  Crystalline  Lake.  It  was  here  that  the 
young  folks  used  to  sail  in  summer  and  skate  in  winter; 
here,  too,  those  queer,  old,  rum-scented  good-for-nothing, 
lazy,  story-telling,  half-vagabonds,  who  sawed  a  little  wood 
or  dug  a  few  potatoes  now  and  then  under  the  pretense  of 
working  for  their  living,  used  to  go  and  fish  through  the  ice 
for  pickerel  every  winter.  And  here  those  three  young 
people  were  drowned,  a  few  summers  ago,  by  the  upsetting 
of  a  sail-boat  in  a  sudden  flaw  of  wind.  There  is  not  one  of 
these  smiling  ponds  which  has  not  devoured  more  youths 
and  maidens  than  any  of  those  monsters  the  ancients  used 
to  tell  such  lies  about.  But  it  was  a  pretty  pond,  and  never 
looked  more  innocent — so  the  native  *  bard  "  of  Rockland 
:-  said  in  his  elegy — than  on  the  morning  when  they  found 
Sarah  Jane  and  Ellen  Maria  floating  among  the  lily- 
pads. 

The  Apollinean   Institute,   or  Institoot,   as   it  was  more 
commonly  called,  was,  in  the  language  of  its  Prospectus, 


THE   MOTH    FLIES    INTO    THE    CANDLE.  35 

a  "  first-class  Educational  Establishment."  It  employed  a 
considerable  corps  of  instructors  to  rough  out  and  finish  the 
hundred  young  lady  scholars  it  sheltered  beneath  its  roof. 
First,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peckham,  the  principal  and  matron  of 
the  school.  Silas  Peckham  was  a  thorough  Yankee,  born 
on  a  windy  part  of  the  coast,  and  reared  chiefly  on  salt-fish. 
Everybody  knows  the  type  of  Yankee  produced  by  this  cli 
mate  and  diet :  thin,  as  if  he  had  been  split  and  dried ; 
with  an  ashen  kind  of  complexion,  like  the  tint  of  the  food 
he  is  made  of;  and  about  as  sharp,  tough,  juiceless,  and 
biting  to  deal  with  as  the  other  is  to  the  taste.  Silas  Peck- 
ham  kept  a  young  ladies'  school  exactly  as  he  would  have 
kept  a  hundred  head  of  cattle, — for  the  simple,  unadorned 
purpose  of  making  just  as  much  money  in  just  as  few  years 
as  could  be  safely  done.  Mr.  Peckham  gave  very  little  per 
sonal  attention  to  the  department  of  instruction,  but  was 
always  busy  with  contracts  for  flour  and  potatoes,  beef  and 
pork,  and  other  nutritive  staples,  the  amount  of  which  re 
quired  for  such  an  establishment  was  enough  to  frighten 
a  quartermaster.  Mrs.  Peckham  was  from  the  West,  raised 
on  Indian  corn  and  pork,  which  give  a  fuller  outline  and 
a  more  humid  temperament,  but  may  perhaps  be  thought 
to  render  people  a  little  coarse-fibered.  Her  specialty  was  to 
look  after  the  feathering,  cackling,  roosting,  rising,  and 
general  behavior  of  these  hundred  chicks.  An  honest,  igno-i 
rant  woman,  she  could  not  have  passed  an  examination  in 
the  youngest  class.  So  this  distinguished  institution  was 
under  the  charge  of  a  commissary  and  a  housekeeper,  and 
its  real  business  was  making  money  by  taking  young  girls 
in  as  boarders. 

Connected  with  this,  however,  was  the  incidental  fact, 
which  the  public  took  for  the  principal  one,  namely,  the 
business  of  instruction.  Mr.  Peckham  knew  well  enough 
that  it  was  just  as  well  to  have  good  instructors  as  bad  ones, 
so  far  as  cost  was  concerned,  and  a  great  deal  better  for 
the  reputation  of  his  feeding-establishment.  He  tried  to 
get  the  best  he  could  without  paying  too  much,  and,  having 
got  them,  to  screw  all  the  work  out  of  them  that  could  pos 
sibly  be  extracted. 

There  was  a  master  for  the  English  branches,  with  a  young 
lady  assistant.  There  was  another  young  lady  who  taught 
French,  of  the  ahvahng  and  pahndahng  style,  which  does  not 


36  ELSIE    TENNER. 

exactly  smack  of  the  asphalt  of  the  Boulevards.  There  was 
also  a  German  teacher  of  music,  who  sometimes  helped  in 
Erench  of  the  ahfaung  and  bauntaung  style, — so  that,  be 
tween  the  two,  the  young  ladies  could  hardly  have  been 
mistaken  for  Parisians,  by  a  Committee  of  the  French 
Academy.  The  German  teacher  also  taught  a  Latin  class 
after  his  fashion, — benna,  a  ben,  gahboot,  a  head,  and  so 
forth. 

The  master  for  the  English  branches  had  lately  left  the 
school  for  private  reasons,  which  need  not  be  here  men 
tioned, — but  he  had  gone,  at  any  rate,  and  it  was  his  place 
which  had  been  offered  to  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon.  The  offer 
came  just  in  season, — as,  for  various  causes,  he  was  willing 
to  leave  the  place  where  he  had  begun  his  new  experience. 

It  was  on  a  fine  morning,  that  Mr.  Bernard,  ushered  in 
by  Mr.  Peckham,  made  his  appearance  in  the  great  school 
room  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  A  general  rustle  ran  all 
round  the  seats  when  the  handsome  young  man  was  intro 
duced.  The  principal  carried  him  to  the  desk  of  the  young 
lady  English  assistant,  Miss  Darley  by  name,  and  intro 
duced  him  to  her. 

There  was  not  a  great  deal  of  study  done  that  day.  The 
young  lady  assistant  had  to  point  out  to  the  new  master 
the  whole  routine  in  which  the  classes  were  engaged  when 
their  late  teacher  left,  and  which  had  gone  on  as  well  as  it 
could  since.  Then  Master  Langdon  had  a  great  many  ques 
tions  to  ask,  some  relating  to  his  new  duties,  and  some, 
perhaps,  implying  a  degree  of  curiosity  not  very  unnatural 
under  the  circumstances.  The  truth  is,  the  general  effect  of 
the  schoolroom,  with  its  scores  of  young  girls,  all  their  eyes 
naturally  centering  on  him  with  fixed  or  furtive  glances, 
was  enough  to  bewilder  and  confuse  a  young  man  like 
Master  Langdon,  though  he  was  not  destitute  of  self-pos 
session,  as  we  have  already  seen. 

You  cannot  get  together  a  hundred  girls,  taking  them  as 
they  come,  from  the  comfortable  and  affluent  classes,  prob 
ably  anywhere,  certainly  not  in  New  England,  without  see 
ing  a  good  deal  of  beauty.  In  fact,  we  very  commonly  mean 
by  beauty  the  way  young  girls  look  when  there  is  nothing 
to  hinder  their  looking  as  Nature  meant  them  to.  And 
the  great  schoolroom  of  the  Apollinean  Institute  did  really 
make  so  pretty  a  show  on  the  morning  when  Master  Lang- 


THE   MOTH   FLIES   INTO   THE   CANDLE.  37 

don  entered  it,  that  he  might  be  pardoned  for  asking  Miss 
Darley  more  questions  about  his  scholars  than  about  their 
lessons. 

There  were  girls  of  all  ages:  little  creatures,  some  pallid 
and  delicate-looking,  the  offspring  of  invalid  parents, — much 
given  to  books,  not  much  to  mischief,  commonly  spoken  of 
as  particularly  good  children,  and  contrasted  with  another 
sort,  girls  of  more  vigorous  organization,  who  were  disposed 
to  laughing  and  play,  and  required  a  strong  hand  to  manage 
them;  then  young  growing  misses  of  every  shade  of  Saxon 
complexion,  and  here  and  there  one  of  more  Southern  hue: 
blondes,  some  of  them  so  translucent-looking,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  you  could  see  the  souls  in  their  bodies,  like  bubbles  in 
glass,  if  souls  were  objects  of  sight;  brunettes,  some  with 
rose-red  colors,  and  some  with  that  swarthy  hue  which  often 
carries  with  it  a  heavily  shaded  lip,  and  which,  with  pure 
outlines  and  outspoken  reliefs,  gives  us  some  of  our  hand 
somest  women, — the  women  whom  ornaments  of  plain  gold 
adorn  more  than  any  other  parures ;  and  again,  but  only 
here  and  there,  one  with  dark  hair  and  gray  or  blue  eyes,  a 
Celtic  type,  perhaps,  but  found  in  our  native  stock  occasion 
ally;  rarest  of  all,  a  light-haired  girl  with  dark  eyes,  hazel, 
brown,  or  of  the  color  of  that  mountain-brook  spoken  of 
in  this  chapter,  where  it  ran  through  shadowy  woodlands. 
With  these  were  to  be  seen  at  intervals  some  of  maturer 
years,  full-blown  flowers  among  the  opening  buds,  with  that 
conscious  look  upon  their  faces  which  so  many  women  wear 
during  the  period  when  they  never  meet  a  single  man  with 
out  having  his  monosyllable  ready  for  him, — tied  as  they 
are,  poor  things!  on  the  rock  of  expectation,  each  of  them 
an  Andromeda  waiting  for  her  Perseus. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  in  ringlets, — the  fourth  in  the  third 
row  on  the  right?"  said  Master  Langdon. 

"  Charlotte  Ann  Wood,"  said  Miss  Darley — "  writes  very 
pretty  poems." 

"Oh! — And  the  pink  one,  three  seats  from  her?  Looks 
bright;  anything  in  her?" 

"  Emma  Dean, — 'day-scholar, — Squire  Dean's  daughter, — 
nice  girl, — second  medal  last  year." 

The  master  asked  these  two  questions  in  a  careless  kind 
of  way,  and  did  not  seem  to  pay  any  too  much  attention 
to  the  answers. 


38  ELSIE  TENNER. 

"And  who  and  what  is  that?"  he  said,— "  sitting  a  little 
apart  there, — that  strange,  wild-looking  girl?" 

This  time  he  put  the  real  question  he  wanted  answered; 
the  other  two  were  asked  at  random,  as  masks  for  the  third. 

The  lady-teacher's  face  changed;  one  would  have  said 
she  was  frightened  or  troubled.  She  looked  at  the  girl 
doubtfully,  as  if  she  might  hear  the  master's  question  and 
its  answer.  But  the  girl  did  not  look  up;  she  was  winding 
a  gold  chain  about  her  wrist,  and  then  uncoiling  it,  as  if 
in  a  kind  of  reverie. 

Miss  Darley  drew  close  to  the  master,  and  placed  her  hand 
so  as  to  hide  her  lips.  "Don't  look  at  her  as  if  we  wore 
talking  about  her,"  she  whispered  softly;  "that  is  Elsie 
Venner." 


CHAPTER     V. 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE  CHAPTER. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  get  to  a  place  with  something  like 
society,  with  residences  which  had  pretensions  to  elegance, 
with  people  of  some  breeding,  with  a  newspaper,  and 
"  stores  "  to  advertise  in  it,  and  with  two  or  three  churches 
to  keep  each  other  alive  by  wholesome  agitation.  Rockland 
was  such  a  place. 

Some  of  the  natural  features  of  the  town  have  been  de 
scribed  already.  The  Mountain,  of  course,  was  what  gave 
it  its  character,  and  redeemed  it  from  wearing  the  common 
place  expression  which  belongs  to  ordinary  country-villages. 
Beautiful,  wild,  invested  with  the  mystery  which  belongs 
to  untrodden  spaces,  and  with  enough  of  terror  to  give  it 
dignity,  it  had  yet  closer  relations  with  the  town  over  which 
it  brooded  than  the  passing  stranger  knew  of.  Thus,  it  made 
a  local  climate  by  cutting  off  the  northern  winds  and  holding 
the  sun's  heat  like  a  garden-wall.  Peach-trees,  which  on 
the  northern  side  of  the  mountain,  hardly  ever  came  to  fruit, 
ripened  abundant  crops  in  Rockland. 

But  there  was  still  another  relation  between  the  mountain 
and  the  town  at  its  foot,  which  strangers  were  not  likely  to 
hear  alluded  to,  and  which  was  oftener  thought  of  than 
spoken  of  by  its  inhabitants.  Those  high-impending  forests, 
— "  hangers,"  as  White  of  Selborne  would  have  called  them, 
— sloping  far  upward  and  backward  into  the  distance,  had 
always  an  air  of  menace  blended  with  their  wild  beauty.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  heaven-scaling  Titan  had  thrown  his 
shaggy  robe  over  the  bare,  precipitous  flanks  of  the  rocky 
summit,  and  it  might  at  any  moment  slide  like  a  garment 
flung  carelessly  on  the  nearest  chance-support,  and,  so  slid 
ing,  crush  the  village  out  of  being,  as  the  Rossberg  when  it 
tumbled  over  on  the  valley  of  Goldau. 

Persons  have  been  known  to  remove  from  the  place,  after 
a  short  residence  in  it,  because  they  were  haunted  day  and 
night  by  the  thought  of  this  awful  green  wall  piled  up  into 

89 


40  ELSIE    VEJSNER. 

the  air  over  their  heads.  They  would  lie  awake  of  nights, 
thinking  they  heard  the  muffled  snapping  of  the  roots,  as 
if  a  thousand  acres  of  the  mountain-side  were  tugging  to 
break  away,  like  the  snow  from  a  house-roof,  and  a  hundred 
thousand  trees  were  clinging  with  all  their  fibers  to  hold 
back  the  soil  just  ready  to  peel  away  and  crash  down  with 
all  its  rocks  and  forest-growths.  And  yet,  by  one  of  those 
strange  contradictions  we  are  constantly  finding  in  human 
nature,  there  were  natives  of  the  town  who  would  come  back 
thirty  or  forty  years  after  leaving  it,  just  to  nestle  under 
this  same  threatening  mountain-side,  as  old  men  sun  them 
selves  against  southward-facing  walls.  The  old  dreams  and 
\  j  legends  of  danger  added  to  the  attraction.  If  the  mountain 
/  should  ever  slide,  they  had  a  kind  of  feeling  as  if  they  ought 
to  be  there.  It  was  a  fascination  like  that  which  the  rattle 
snake  is  said  to  exert. 

This  comparison  naturally  suggests  the  recollection  of 
that  other  source  of  danger  which  was  an  element  in  the 
every-day  life  of  the  Rockland  people.  The  folks  in  some 
of  the  neighboring  towns  had  a  joke  against  them,  that 
a  Rocklander  couldn't  hear  a  bean-pod  rattle  without  saying, 
"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  "  It  is  very  true,  that  many 
a  nervous  old  lady  has  had  a  terrible  start,  caused  by  some 
mischievous  young  rogue's  giving  a  sudden  shake  to  one  of 
these  noisy  vegetable  products  in  her  immediate  vicinity. 
Yet,  strangely  enough,  many  persons  missed  the  excitement 
of  the  possibility  of  a  fatal  bite  in  other  regions,  where  there 
were  nothing  but  black  and  green  and  striped  snakes,  mean 
ophidians,  having  the  spite  of  the  nobler  serpent  without 
Tiis  venom, — poor  crawling  creatures,  whom  Nature  would 
not  trust  with  a  poison-bag.  Many  natives  of  Rockland  did 
unquestionably  experience  a  certain  gratification  in  this  in 
finitesimal  sense  of  danger.  It  was  noted  that  the  old  peo 
ple  retained  their  hearing  longer  than  in  other  places. 
Some  said  it  was  the  softened  climate,  but  others  believed 
it  was  owing  to  the  habit  of  keeping  their  ears  open  when 
ever  they  were  walking  through  the  grass  or  in  the  woods. 
At  any  rate,  a  slight  sense  of  danger  is  often  an  agreeable 
stimulus.  People  sip  their  creme  de  noyau  with  a  peculiar 
tremulous  pleasure,  because  there  is  a  bare  possibility  that 
it  may  contain  prussic  acid  enough  to  knock  them  over;  in 
which  case  they  will  lie  as  dead  as  if  a  thunder-cloud  had 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE    CHAPTER.       41 

emptied  itself  into  the  earth  through  their  brain  and  mar- 
•    row. 

But  Rockland  had  other  features  which  helped  to  give  it 
a  special  character.  First  of  all,  there  was  one  grand  street 
which  was  its  chief  glory.  Elm  Street  it  was  called,  nat 
urally  enough,  for  its  elms  made  a  long,  pointed-arched 
gallery  of  it  through  most  of  its  extent.  No  natural  Gothic 
arch  compares,  for  a  moment,  with  that  formed  by  two 
American  elms,  where  their  lofty  jets  of  foliage  shoot  across 
each  other's  ascending  curves,  to  intermingle  their  showery 
flakes  of  green.  When  one  looks  through  a  long  double  row 
of  these,  as  in  that  lovely  avenue  which  the  poets  of  Yale 
remember  so  well, — 

"0,  could  the  vista  of  my  life  but  now  as  bright  appear 
As  when  I  first  through  Temple  Street  looked  down  thine  espalier!" 

he  beholds  a  temple  not  built  with  hands,  fairer  than  any 
,  .minster,  with  all  its  clustered  stems  and  flowering  capitals, 
that  ever  grew  in  stone. 

Nobody  knows  New  England  who  is  not  on  terms  of  in 
timacy  with  one  of  its  elms.  The  elm  comes  nearer  to  hav 
ing  a  soul  than  any  other  vegetable  creature  among  us.  It 
loves  man  as  man  loves  it.  It  is  modest  and  patient.  It  has 
a  small  flake  of  a  seed  which  blows  in  everywhere  and  makes 
arrangements  for  coming  up  by-and-by.  So,  in  spring,  one 
finds  a  crop  of  baby-elms  among  his  carrots  and  parsnips, 
very  weak  and  small  compared  to  those  succulent  vegetables. 
The  baby-elms  die,  most  of  them,  slain,  unrecognized  or  un 
heeded,  by  hand  or  hoe,  as  meekly  as  Herod's  innocents.  One 
of  them  gets  overlooked,  perhaps,  until  it  has  established  a 
kind  of  right  to  stay.  Three  generations  of  carrot  and 
parsnip-consumers  have  passed  away,  yourself  among  them, 
and  now  let  your  great-grandson  look  for  the  baby-elm. 
Twenty- two  feet  of  clean  girth,  three  hundred  and  sixty 
feet  in  the  line  that  bounds  its  leafy  circle,  it  covers  the  boy 
with  such  a  canopy  as  neither  glossy-leafed  oak  nor  insect- 
haunted  linden  ever  lifted  into  the  summer  skies. 

Elm  Street  was  the  pride  of  Rockland,  but  not  only  on 
account  of  its  Gothic-arched  vista.  In  this  street  were  most 
of  the  great  houses,  or  "  mansion-houses,"  as  it  waa  usual  to 
call  them.  Along  this  street,  also,  the  more  nicely  kept  and 
neatly  painted  dwellings  were  chiefly  congregated.  It  was 


42  ELSIE   VENDEE. 

the  correct  thing  for  a  Rockland  dignitary  to  have  a  house 
in  Elm  Street. 

A  New  England  "mansion-house "  is  naturally  square, 
with  dormer  windows  projecting  from  the  roof,  which  has  a 
balustrade  with  turned  posts  round  it.  It  shows  a  great 
breadth  of  front-yard  before  its  door,  as  its  owner  shows  a 
respectable  expanse  of  clean  shirt-front.  It  has  a  lateral 
margin  beyond  its  stables  and  offices,  as  its  master  wears  his 
white  wrist-bands  showing  beyond  his  coat-cuffs.  It  may 
not  have  what  can  properly  be  called  grounds,  but  it  must 
have  elbow-room,  at  any  rate.  Without  it,  it  is  like  a  man 
who  is  always  tight-buttoned  for  want  of  any  linen  to  show. 
The  mansion-house  which  has  had  to  button  itself  up  tight 
in  fences,  for  want  of  green  or  gravel  margin,  will  be  adver 
tising  for  boarders  presently.  The  old  English  pattern  of 
the  New  England  mansion-house,  only  on  a  somewhat 
grander  scale,  is  Sir  Thomas  Abney's  place,  where  dear,  good 
Dr.  Watts  said  prayers  for  the  family,  and  wrote  those 
blessed  hymns  of  his  that  sing  us  into  consciousness  in  our 
cradles,  and  come  back  to  us  in  sweet,  single  verses,  between 
the  moments  of  wandering  arid  of  stupor,  when  we  lie  dying, 
and  sound  over  us  when  we  can  no  longer  hear  them,  bring 
ing  grateful  tears  to  the  hot,  aching  eyes  beneath  the  thick, 
black  veils,  and  carrying  the  holy  calm  with  them  which 
filled  the  good  man's  heart,  as  he  prayed  and  sung  under  the 
shelter  of  the  old  English  mansion-house. 

Next  to  the  mansion-houses,  came  the  two-story,  trim, 
white-painted,  "  genteel  "  houses,  which,  being  more  gossipy 
and  less  nicely  bred,  crowded  close  up  to  the  street,  instead 
of  standing  back  from  it  with  arms  akimbo,  like  the  man 
sion-houses.  Their  little  front-yards  were  very  commonly 
full  of  lilac  and  syringa  and  other  bushes,  which  were  allowed 
to  smother  the  lower  story  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  light  and 
air,  so  that,  what  with  small  windows  and  small  window- 
panes,  and  the  darkness  made  by  these  choking  growths  of 
shrubbery,  the  front  parlors  of  some  of  these  houses  were  the 
most  tomb-like,  melancholy  places  that  could  be  found  any 
where  among  the  abodes  of  the  living.  Their  garnishing 
was  apt  to  assist  this  impression.  Large-patterned  carpets, 
which  always  look  discontented  in  little  rooms,  hair-cloth 
furniture,  black  and  shiny  as  beetles'  wing  cases,  and  center- 
tables,  with  a  sullen  oil -lamp  of  the  kind  called  astral  by  our 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE    CHAPTER.       43 

imaginative  ancestors,  in  the  center, — these  things  were  in 
evitable.  In  set  piles  round  the  lamp  was  ranged  the  current 
literature  of  the  day,  in  the  form  of  Temperance  Documents, 
unbound  numbers  of  the  Unknown  Public's  Magazines  with 
worn-out  steel  engravings  and  high-colored  fashion-plates, 
the  Poems  of  a  distinguished  British  author  whom  it  is  un 
necessary  to  mention,  a  volume  of  sermons,  or  a  novel  or 
two,  or  both,  according  to  the  tastes  of  the  family,  and  the 
Good  Book,  which  is  always  Itself  in  the  cheapest  and  com 
monest  company.  The  father  of  the  family  with  his  hand  in 
the  breast  of  his  coat,  the  mother  of  the  same  in  a  wide- 
bordered  cap,  sometimes  a  print  of  the  Last  Supper,  by  no 
means  Morghen's,  or  the  Father  of  his  Country,  or  the  old 
General,  or  the  Defender  of  the  Constitution,  or  an  un 
known  clergyman  with  an  open  book  before  him, — these  were 
the  usual  ornaments  of  the  walls,  the  first  two  a  matter  of 
rigor,  the  others  according  to  politics  and  other  tendencies. 

This  intermediate  class  of  houses,  wherever  one  finds  them 
in  New  England  towns,  are  very  apt  to  be  cheerless  and  un 
satisfactory.  They  have  neither  the  luxury  of  the  mansion- 
house  nor  the  comfort  of  the  farm-house.  They  are  rarely 
kept  at  an  agreeable  temperature.  The  mansion-house  has 
large  fire-places  and  generous  chimneys,  and  is  open  to  the 
sunshine.  The  farm-house  makes  no  pretensions,  but  it  has 
a  good  warm  kitchen,  at  any  rate,  and  one  can  be  comfortable 
there  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  without  fear  and  without 
reproach.  These  lesser  country-houses  of  genteel  aspirations 
are  much  given  to  patent  subterfuges  of  one  kind  and  an 
other  to  get  heat  without  combustion.  The  chilly  parlor 
and  the  slippery  hair-cloth  seat  take  the  life  out  of  the  warm 
est  welcome.  If  one  would  make  these  places  wholesome, 
happy,  and  cheerful,  the  first  precept  would  be, — The  dearest 
fuel,  plenty  of  it,  and  let  half  the  heat  go  up  the  chimney. 
If  you  can't  afford  this,  don't  try  to  live  in  a  "  genteel " 
fashion,  but  stick  to  the  ways  of  the  honest  farm-house. 

There  were  a  good  many  comfortable  farm-houses  scattered 
about  Kockland.  The  best  of  them  were  something  of  the 
following  pattern,  which  is  too  often  superseded  of  late  by  a 
more  pretentious,  but  infinitely  less  pleasing  kind  of  rustic 
architecture.  A  little  back  from  the  road,  seated  directly 
on  the  green  sod,  rose  a  plain  wooden  building,  two  stories  in 
front,  with  a  long  roof  sloping  backwards  to  within  a  few 


44  ELSIE    VENNER. 

feet  of  the  ground.  This,  .like  the  "mansion-house,"  is 
copied  from  an  old  English  pattern.  Cottages  of  this  model 
may  be  seen  in  Lancashire,  for  instance,  always  with  the  same 
honest,  homely  look,  as  if  their  roofs  acknowledged  their  re 
lationship  to  the  soil  out  of  which  they  had  sprung.  The 
walls  were  unpainted,  but  turned  by  the  slow  action  of  the 
sun  and  air  and  rain  to  a  quiet  dove-  or  slate-color.  An  old 
broken  mill-stone  at  the  door, — a  well-sweep  pointing  like  a 
finger  to  the  heavens,  which  the  shining  round  of  water 
beneath  looked  up  at  like  a  dark  unsleeping  eye, — a  single 
large  elm  a  little  at  one  side, — a  barn  twice  as  big  as  the 
house, — a  cattle-yard,  with 

"The  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall,"— 

some  fields,  in  pasture  or  in  crops,  with  low  stone  walls 
round  them, — a  row  of  beehives, — a  garden-patch,  with  roots, 
and  currant-bushes,  and  many-hued  hollyhocks,  and  swollen- 
stemmed,  globe-headed,  seedling  onions,  and  marigolds,  and 
flower-de-luces,  and  lady's-delights,  and  peonies,  crowding  in 
together,  with  southernwood  in  the  borders,  and  woodbine 
and  hops  and  morning-glories  climbing  as  they  got  a  chance, 
— these  were  the  features  by  which  the  Rockland-born  chil 
dren  remembered  the  farm-house,  when  they  had  grown  to  be 
men.  Such  are  the  recollections  that  come  over  poor  sailor- 
boys  crawling  out  on  the  reeling  yards  to  reef  topsails  as 
their  vessels  stagger  round  the  stormy  Cape;  and  such  are 
the  flitting  images  that  make  the  eyes  of  old  country-born 
merchants  look  dim  and  dreamy,  as  they  sit  in  their  city 
palaces,  warm  with  the  after-dinner  flush  of  the  red  wave 
out  of  which  Memory  arises,  as  Aphrodite  arose  from  the 
green  waves  of  the  ocean. 

Two  meeting-houses  stood  on  two  eminences,  facing  each 
other,  and  looking  like  a  couple  of  fighting-cocks  with  their 
necks  straight  up  in  the  air, — as  if  they  would  flap  their 
roofs,  the  next  thing,  and  crow  out  of  their  upstretched 
steeples,  and  peck  at  each  other's  glass  eyes  with  their  sharp- 
pointed  weathercocks. 

The  first  was  a  good  pattern  of  the  real  old-fashioned  New 
England  meeting-house.  It  was  a  large  barn  with  windows, 
fronted  by  a  square  tower  crowned  with  a  kind  of  wooden 
bell  inverted  and  raised  on  legs,  out  of  which  rose  a  slender 
spire  with  the  sharp-billed  weathercock  at  the  summit.  In- 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE    CHAPTER.       45 

side,  tall,  square  pews  with  flapping  seats,  and  a  gallery  run 
ning  round  three  sides  of  the  building.  On  the  fourth  side 
the  pulpit,  with  a  huge,  dusty  sounding-board  hanging  over 
it.  Here  preached  the  Reverend  Pierrepont  Honeywood, 
D.  D.,  successor,  after  a  number  of  generations,  to  the  office 
and  the  parsonage  of  the  Reverend  Didymus  Bean,  before 
mentioned,  but  not  suspected  of  any  of  his  alleged  heresies. 
He  held  to  the  old  faith  of  the  Puritans,  and  occasionally1- \tvi' 
delivered  a  discourse  which  was  considered  by  the  hard- 
headed  theologians  of  his  parish  to  have  settled  the  whole 
matter  fully  and  finally,  so  that  now  there  was  a  good  logical 
basis  laid  down  for  the  Millennium,  which  might  begin  at 
once  upon  the  platform  of  his  demonstrations.  Yet  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Honeywood  was  fonder  of  preaching  plain, 
practical  sermons  about  the  duties  of  life,  and  showing  his 
Christianity  in  abundant  good  works  among  his  people.  It 
was  noticed  by  some  few  of  his  flock,  not  without  comment, 
that  the  great  majority  of  his  texts  came  from  the  Gospels, 
and  this  more  and  more  as  he  became  interested  in  various 
benevolent  enterprises  which  brought  him  into  relations  with 
ministers  and  kind-hearted  laymen  of  other  denominations. 
He  was  in  fact  a  man  of  a  very  warm,  open,  and  exceedingly 
human  disposition,  and  although  bred  by  a  clerical  father, 
whose  motto  was  "  Sit  anima  mea  cum  Puritanis,"  he  exer 
cised  his  human  faculties  in  the  harness  of  his  ancient 
faith  with  such  freedom  that  the  straps  of  it  got  so  loose  they 
did  not  interfere  greatly  with  the  circulation  of  the  warm 
blood  through  his  system.  Once  in  a  while  he  seemed  to 
think  it  necessary  to  come  out  with  a  grand  doctrinal  ser 
mon,  and  then  he  would  lapse  away  for  a  while  into  preach 
ing  on  men's  duties  to  each  other  and  to  society,  and  hit 
hard,  perhaps,  at  some  of  the  actual  vices  of  the  time  and 
place,  and  insist  with  such  tenderness  and  eloquence  on  the 
great  depth  and  breadth  of  true  Christian  love  and  charity, 
that  his  oldest  deacon  shook  his  head,  and  wished  he  had 
shown  as  much  interest  when  he  was  preaching,  three  Sab 
baths  back,  on  Predestination,  or  in  his  discourse  against 
the  Sabellians.  But  he  was  sound  in  the  faith;  no  doubt  of 
that.  Did  he  not  preside  at  the  council  held  in  the  town  of 
Tamarack,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  which  expelled 
its  clergyman  for  maintaining  heretical  doctrines?  As  pre 
siding  officer,  he  did  not  vote,  of  course,  but  there  was  no 


46  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

doubt  that  he  was  all  right;  he  had  some  of  the  Edwards 
blood  in  him,  and  that  couldn't  very  well  let  him  go 
wrong. 

The  meeting-house  on  the  other  and  opposite  summit  was 
of  a  more  modern  style,  considered  by  many  a  great  improve 
ment  on  the  old  New  England  model,  so  that  it  is  not  un 
common  for  a  country  parish  to  pull  down  its  old  meeting 
house  which  has  been  preached  in  for  a  hundred  years  or  so, 
and  put  up  one  of  these  more  elegant  edifices.  The  new 
building  was  in  what  may  be  called  the  florid  shingle-Gothic 
manner.  Its  pinnacles  and  crockets  and  other  adornments 
were,  like  the  body  of  the  building,  all  of  pine  wood, — an 
admirable  material,  as  it  is  very  soft  and  easily  worked, 
and  can  be  painted  of  any  color  desired.  Inside,  the  walls 
were  stuccoed  in  imitation  of  stone, — first  a  dark-brown 
square,  then  two  light-brown  squares,  then  another  dark- 
brown  square,  and  so  on,  to  represent  the  accidental  differ 
ences  of  shade  always  noticeable  in  the  real  stones  of  which 
walls  are  built.  To  be  sure,  the  architect  could  not  help 
getting  his  party-colored  squares  in  almost  as  regular  rhyth 
mical  order  as  those  of  a  chess-board;  but  nobody  can  avoid 
doing  things  in  a  systematic  and  serial  way;  indeed,  people 
who  wish  to  plant  trees  in  natural  clumps  know  very  well 
that  they  cannot  keep  from  making  regular  lines  and  sym 
metrical  figures,  unless  by  some  trick  or  other,  as  that  one  of 
throwing  a  peck  of  potatoes  up  into  the  air  and  sticking  in  a 
tree  wherever  a  potato  happens  to  fall.  The  pews  of  this 
meeting-house  were  the  usual  oblong  ones,  where  people  sit 
close  together  with  a  ledge  before  them  to  support  their 
hymn-books,  liable  only  to  occasional  contact  with  the  back 
of  the  next  pew's  heads  or  bonnets,  and  a  place  running 
under  the  seat  of  that  pew  where  hats  could  be  deposited, — 
always  at  the  risk  of  the  owner,  in  case  of  injury  by  boots  or 
crickets. 

In  this  meeting-house  preached  the  Reverend  Chauncey 
Fairweather,  a  divine  of  the  "  Liberal "  school,  as  it  is  com 
monly  called,  bred  at  that  famous  college  which  used  to  be 
thought,  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  to  have  the  monopoly 
of  training  young  men  in  the  milder  forms  of  heresy.  His 
ministrations  were  attended  with  decency,  but  not  followed 
with  enthusiasm.  "  The  beauty  of  virtue  "  got  to  be  an  old 
story  at  last.  "  The  moral  dignity  of  human  nature " 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE    CHAPTEE.       47 

ceased  to  excite  a  thrill  of  satisfaction,  after  some  hundred 
repetitions.  It  grew  to  be  a  dull  business,  this  preaching 
against  stealing  and  intemperance,  while  he  knew  very  well 
that  the  thieves  were  prowling  round  orchards  and  empty 
houses,  instead  of  being  there  to  hear  the  sermon,  and  that 
the  drunkards,  being  rarely  church-goers,  get  little  good  by  the 
statistics  and  eloquent  appeals  of  the  preacher.  Every  now 
and  then,  however,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  let  off  a 
polemic  discourse  against  his  neighbor  opposite,  which  waked 
his  people  up  a  little ;  but  it  was  a  languid  congregation,  at 
best, — very  apt  to  stay  away  from  meeting  in  the  afternoon, 
and  not  at  all  given  to  extra  evening  services.  The  minister, 
unlike  his  rival  of  the  other  side  of  the  way,  was  a  down 
hearted  and  timid  kind  of  man.  He  went  on  preaching  as  he  \ 
had  been  taught  to  preach,  but  he  had  misgivings  at  times. 
There  was  a  little  Roman  Catholic  church  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  where  his  own  was  placed,  which  he  always  had  to  pass 
on  Sundays.  He  could  never  look  on  the  thronging  multi 
tudes  that  crowded  its  pews  and  aisles  or  knelt  bare-headed 
on  its  steps,  without  a  longing  to  get  in  among  them  and  go 
down  on  his  knees  and  enjoy  the  luxury  of  devotional 
contact  which  makes  a  worshiping  throng  as  different  from 
the  same  numbers  praying  apart  as  a  bed  of  coals  is  from  / 
a  trail  of  scattered  cinders. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  huddle  in  with  those  poor  laborers  and 
working- women !  "  he  would  say  to  himself.  "  If  I  could 
but  breathe  that  atmosphere,  stifling  though  it  be,  yet  made 
holy  by  ancient  litanies,  and  cloudy  with  the  smoke  of  hal 
lowed  incense,  for  one  hour,  instead  of  droning  over  these 
moral  precepts  to  my  half -sleeping  congregation !  "  The  in: 
tellectual  isolation  of  his  sect  preyed  upon  him;  for,  of  all 
terrible  things  to  natures  like  his,  the  most  terrible  is  to  be 
long  to  a  minority.  No  person  that  looked  at  his  thin  and 
sallow  cheek,  his  sunken  and  sad  eye,  his  tremulous  lip,  his 
contracted  forehead,  or  who  heard  his  querulous,  though  not 
unmusical  voice,  could  fail  to  see  that  his  life  was  an  uneasy 
one,  that  he  was  engaged  in  some  inward  conflict.  His 
dark,  melancholic  aspect  contrasted  with  his  seemingly 
cheerful  creed,  and  was  all  the  more  striking,  as  the  worthy 
Dr.  Honeywood,  professing  a  belief  which  made  him  a  pas 
senger  on  board  a  shipwrecked  planet,  was  yet  a  most  good- 
humored  and  companionable  gentleman,  whose  laugh  on 


48  ELSIE    VENNER. 

week-days  did  one  as  much  good  to  listen  to  as  the  best 
sermon  he  ever  delivered  on  a  Sunday. 

A  mile  or  two  from  the  center  of  Rockland  was  a  pretty 
little  Episcopal  church,  with  a  roof  like  a  wedge  of  cheese,  a 
square  tower,  a  stained  window,  and  a  trained  rector,  who 
read  service  with  such  ventral  depth  of  utterance  and  rrredu- 
plication  of  the  rrresonant  letter,  that  his  own  mother  would 
not  have  known  him  for  her  son,  if  the  good  woman  had  not 
ironed  his  surplice  and  put  it  on  with  her  o\vn  hands. 

There  were  two  public-houses  in  the  place:  one  dignified 
with  the  name  of  the  Mountain  House,  somewhat  frequented 
by  city-people  in  the  summer  months,  large-fronted,  three- 
storied,  balconied,  boasting  a  distinct  ladies'  drawing  room, 
and  spreading  a  table  d'hote  of  some  pretensions;  the  other, 
"  Pollard's   Tahvern,"  in  the  common  speech, — a  two-story 
building,  with  a  barroom,  once  famous,  where  there  was  a 
great  smell  of  hay  and  boots  and  pipes  and  all  other  bucolic- 
flavored  elements, — where  games  of  checkers  were  played  on 
the  back  of  the  bellows  with  red  and  white  kernels  of  corn, 
or  with  beans  and  coffee, — where  a  man  slept  in  a  box-settle 
at   night,   to   wake   up    early   passengers, — where   teamsters 
came  in,  with  wooden-handled  whips  and  coarse  frocks,  re- 
enforcing  the  bucolic  flavor  of  the  atmosphere,  and  middle- 
aged  male  gossips,  sometimes  including  the  squire  of  the 
neighboring  law-office,  gathered  to  exchange  a  question  or 
two  about  the  news,  and  then  fall  into  that  solemn  state  of 
suspended    animation  which  the  temperance    barrooms   of 
modern  days  produce  in  human  beings,  as  the  Grotta   del 
Cane  does  in  dogs  in  the  well-known  experiments  related  by 
travelers.    This  barroom  used  to  be  famous  for  drinking  and 
story-telling,  and  sometimes  fighting,  in  old  times.     That 
was  when  there  were  rows  of  decanters  on  the  shelf  behind 
the  bar,  and  a  hissing  vessel  of  hot  water  ready,  to  make 
punch,  and  three  or  four  loggerheads  (long  irons  clubbed  at 
the  end)  were  always  lying  in  the  fire  in  the  cold  season, 
waiting  to  be  plunged  into  sputtering  and  foaming  mugs  of 
flip. — a  goodly  compound,  speaking  according  to  the  flesh, 
made  with  beer  and  sugar,  and  a  certain  suspicion  of  strong 
waters,  over  which  a  little  nutmeg  being  grated,  and  in  it  the 
hot  iron  being  then  allowed  to  sizzle,  there  results  a  peculiar 
singed  aroma,  which  the  wise  regard  as  a  warning  to  remove 
themselves  at  once  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation. 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    DESCRIPTIVE    CHAPTER        49 

But  the  bar  of  Pollard's  Tahvern  no  longer  presented  its 
old  attractions,  and  the  loggerheads  had  long  disappeared 
from  the  fire.  In  place  of  the  decanters,  were  boxes  con 
taining  "  lozengers,"  as  they  were  commonly  called,  sticks  of 
candy  in  jars,  cigars  in  tumblers,  a  few  lemons,  grown  hard- 
skinned  and  marvelously  shrunken  by  long  exposure,  but 
still  feebly  suggestive  of  possible  lemonade, — the  whole  orna 
mented  by  festoons  of  yellow  and  blue  cut  fly-paper.  On  the 
front  shelf  of  the  bar  stood  a  large  German-silver  pitcher  of 
water,  and  scattered  about  were  ill-conditioned  lamps,  with 
wicks  that  always  wanted  picking,  which  burned  red  and 
smoked  a  good  deal,  and  were  apt  to  go  out  without  any 
obvious  cause,  leaving  strong  reminiscences  of  the  whale- 
fishery  in  the  circumambient  air. 

The  common  school-houses  of  Rockland  were  dwarfed  by 
the  grandeur  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  The  master 
passed  one  of  them,  in  a  walk  he  was  taking,  soon  after  his 
arrival  in  Rockland.  He  looked  in  at  the  rows  of  desks,  and 
recalled  his  late  experiences.  He  could  not  help  laughing, 
as  he  thought  how  neatly  he  had  knocked  the  young  butcher 
off  his  pins. 

"  '  A  little  science  is  a  dangerous  thing,' 

as  well  as  a  little  '  learning,'  "  he  said  to  himself ;  "  only  it's 
dangerous  to  the  fellow  you  try  it  on."  And  he  cut  him  a 
good  stick,  and  began  climbing  the  side  of  The  Mountain  to 
get  a  look  at  that  famous  Rattlesnake  Ledge. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW. 

The  virtue  of  the  world  is  not  mainly  in  its  leaders.  In 
the  midst  of  the  multitude  which  follows  there  is  often  some 
thing  better  than  in  the  one  that  goes  before.  Old  generals 
wanted  to  take  Toulon,  but  one  of  their  young  colonels 
showed  them  how.  The  junior  counsel  has  been  known  not 
unfrequently  to  make  a  better  argument  than  his  senior 
fellow, — if,  indeed,  he  did  not  make  both  their  arguments. 
Good  ministers  will  tell  you  they  have  parishioners 
who  beat  them  in  the  practice  of  the  virtues.  A  great 
establishment,  got  up  on  commercial  principles,  like  the 
Apollinean  Institute,  might  yet  be  well  carried  on,  if  it  hap 
pened  to  get  good  teachers.  And  when  Master  Langdon 
came  to  see  its  management,  he  recognized  that  there  must 
be  fidelity  and  intelligence  somewhere  among  the  instructors. 
It  was  only  necessary  to  look  for  a  moment  at  the  fair,  open 
forehead,  the  still,  tranquil  eye  of  gentle,  habitual  authority, 
the  sweet  gravity  that  lay  upon  the  lips,  to  hear  the  clear 
answers  to  the  pupil's  questions,  to  notice  how  every  request 
had  the  force  without  the  form  of  a  command,  and  the  young 
man  could  not  doubt  that  the  good  genius  of  the  school 
stood  before  him  in  the  person  of  Helen  Darley. 

It  was  the  old  story.  A  poor  country-clergyman  dies,  and 
leaves  a  widow  and  a  daughter.  In  Old  England  the  daugh 
ter  would  have  eaten  the  bitter  bread  of  a  governess  in  some 
rich  family.  In  New  England  she  must  keep  a  school.  So, 
rising  from  one  sphere  to  another,  she  at  length  finds  herself 
the  prima  donna  in  the  department  of  instruction  in  Mr. 
Silas  Peckham's  educational  establishment. 

What  a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  be  poor!  She  was  depend 
ent,  frail,  sensitive,  conscientious.  She  was  in  the  power  of 
a  hard,  grasping,  thin-blooded,  tough-fibered,  trading  educa 
tor,  who  neither  knew  nor  cared  for  a  tender  woman's  sensi 
bilities,  but  who  paid  her  and  meant  to  have  his  money's 
worth  out  of  her  brains,  and  as  much  more  than  his  money's 

50 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW.       51 

worth  as  he  could  get.  She  was  consequently,  in  plain  Eng 
lish,  overworked,  and  an  overworked  woman  is  always  a  sad 
sight,  sadder  a  great  deal  than  an  overworked  man,  because 
she  is  so  much  more  fertile  in  capacities  of  suffering  than  a 
man.  She  has  so  many  varieties  of  headache, — sometimes 
as  if  Jael  were  driving  the  nail  that  killed  Sisera  into  her 
temples, — sometimes  letting  her  work  with  half  her  brain 
while  the  other  half  throbs  as  if  it  would  go  to  pieces, — 
sometimes  tightening  round  the  brows  as  if  her  cap-band 
were  a  ring  of  iron, — and  then  her  neuralgias,  and  her  back 
aches,  and  her  fits  of  depression,  in  which  she  thinks  she  is  , 
nothing  and  less  than  nothing,  and  those  paroxysms  which 
men  speak  slightingly  of  as  hysterical, — convulsions,  that  is 
all,  only  not  commonly  fatal  ones, — 'so  many  trials  which 
belong  to  her  fine  and  mobile  structure, — that  she  is  always 
entitled  to  pity,  when  she  is  placed  in  conditions  which 
develop  her  nervous  tendencies. 

The  poor  young  lady's  work  had,  of  course,  been  doubled 
since  the  departure  of  Master  Langdon's  predecessor.  No 
body  knows  what  the  weariness  of  instruction  is,  as  soon  as 
the  teacher's  faculties  begin  to  be  overtasked,  but  those  who 
have  tried  it.  The  relays  of  fresh  pupils,  each  new  set  with 
its  exhausting  powers  in  full  action  coming  one  after  an 
other,  take  out  all  the  reserve  forces  and  faculties  of  resist 
ance  from  the  subject  of  their  draining  process. 

The  day's  work  was  over,  and  it  was  late  in  the  evening, 
when  she  sat  down,  tired  and  faint,  with  a  great  bundle  of 
girls'  themes  or  compositions  to  read  over  before  she  could 
rest  her  weary  head  on  the  pillow  of  her  narrow  trundle-bed, 
and  forget  for  a  while  the  treadmill  stair  of  labor  she  was 
daily  climbing. 

How  she  dreaded  this  most  forlorn  of  all  a  teacher's  tasks ! 
She  was  conscientious  in  her  duties,  and  would  insist  on 
reading  every  sentence,  there  was  no  saying  where  she 
might  find  faults  of  grammar  or  bad  spelling.  There 
might  have  been  twenty  or  thirty  of  these  themes  in  the  .,- 
bundle  before  her.  Of  course  she  knew  pretty  well  the 
leading  sentiments  they  would  contain :  that  beauty  was  sub 
ject  to  the  accidents  of  time;  that  wealth  was  inconstant, 
and  existence  uncertain;  that  virtue  was  its  own  reward; 
that  youth  exhaled,  like  the  dewdrop  from  the  flower,  ere  the 
sun  had  reached  its  meridian;  that  life  was  o'ershadowed 


52  ELSIE    VENKER. 

with  trials;  that  the  lessons  of  virtue  instilled  by  our  be 
loved  teachers  were  to  be  our  guides  through  all  our  future 
career.  The  imagery  employed  consisted  principally  of 
roses,  lilies,  birds,  clouds,  and  brooks,  with  the  celebrated 
comparison  of  wayward  genius  to  a  meteor.  Who  does  not 
know  the  small,  slanted,  Italian  hand  of  these  girls'-com- 
positions, — their  stringing  together  of  the  good  old  tradi 
tional  copy-book  phrases,  their  occasional  gushes  of  senti 
ment,  their  profound  estimates  of  the  world,  sounding  to 
the  old  folks  that  read  them  as  the  experience  of  a  bantam- 
pullet's  last-hatched  young  one  with  the  chips  of  the  shell  on 
its  head  would  sound  to  a  Mother  Gary's  chicken,  who  knew 
the  great  ocean  with  all  its  typhoons  and  tornadoes?  Yet 
every  now  and  then  one  is  liable  to  be  surprised  with  strange 
clairvoyant  flashes,  that  can  hardly  be  explained,  except  by 
the  mysterious  inspiration  which  every  now  and  then  seizes 
a  young  girl  and  exalts  her  intelligence,  just  as  hysteria  in 
other  instances  exalts  the  sensibility, — a  little  something  of 
that  which  made  Joan  of  Arc,  and  the  Burney  girl  who  pro 
phesied  "  Evelina,"  and  the  Davidson  sisters.  In  the  midst 
of  these  commonplace  exercises  which  Miss  Darley  read  over 
so  carefully  were  two  or  three  that  had  something  of  indi 
vidual  flavor  about  them,  and  here  and  there  there  was  an 
image  or  an  epithet  which  showed  the  footprint  of  a  pas 
sionate  nature,  as  a  fallen  scarlet  feather  marks  the  path  the 
wild  flamingo  has  trodden. 

The  young  lady  teacher  read  them  with  a  certain  indiffer 
ence  of  manner,  as  one  reads  proofs, — noting  defects  of  de 
tail,  but  not  commonly  arrested  by  the  matters  treated  of. 
Even  Miss  Charlotte  Ann  Wood's  poem,  beginning 

"  How  sweet  at  evening's  balmy  hour," 

did  not  excite  her.  She  marked  the  inevitable  false  rhyme 
of  Cockney  and  Yankee  beginners,  morn  and  dawn,  and 
tossed  the  verses  on  the  pile  of  papers  she  had  finished.  She 
was  looking  over  some  of  the  last  of  them  in  a  rather  listless 
way, — for  the  poor  thing  was  getting  sleepy  in  spite  of 
herself, — when  she  came  to  one  which  seemed  to  rouse  her 
attention,  and  lifted  her  drooping  lids.  She  looked  at  it  a 
moment  before  she  would  touch  it.  Then  she  took  hold  of  it 
by  one  corner  and  slid  it  off  from  the  rest.  One  would  have 
said  she  was  afraid  of  it,  or  had  some  undefined  antipathy 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW.       53 

which  made  it  hateful  to  her.  Such  odd  fancies  are  com 
mon  enough  in  young  persons  in  her  nervous  state.  Many 
of  these  young  people  will  jump  up  twenty  times  a  day  and 
run  to  dabble  the  tips  of  their  fingers  in  water,  after  touch 
ing  the  most  inoffensive  objects. 

This  composition  was  written  in  a  singular,  sharp-pointed, 
long,  slender  hand,  on  a  kind  of  wavy,  ribbed  paper.  There 
was  something  strangely  suggestive  about  the  look  of  it, — 
but  exactly  of  what,  Miss  Darley  either  could  not  or  did  not 
try  to  think.  The  subject  of  the  paper  was  The  Mountain, 
— the  composition  being  a  sort  of  descriptive  rhapsody.  It 
showed  a  startling  familiarity  with  some  of  the  savage 
scenery  of  the  region.  One  would  have  said  that  the  writer 
must  have  threaded  its  wildest  solitudes  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  and  stars  as  well  as  by  day.  As  the  teacher  read  on, 
her  color  changed,  and  a  kind  of  tremulous  agitation  came 
over  her.  There  were  hints  in  this  strange  paper  she  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of.  There  was  something  in  its  descrip 
tions  and  imagery  that  recalled, — Miss  Darley  could  not  say 
what, — but  it  made  her  frightfully  nervous.  Still  she  could 
not  help  reading,  till  she  came  to  one  passage  which  so  agi 
tated  her,  that  the  tired  and  overwearied  girl's  self-control 
left  her  entirely.  She  sobbed  once  or  twice,  then  laughed 
convulsively,  and  flung  herself  on  the  bed,  where  she  worked 
out  a  set  hysteric  spasm  as  she  best  might,  without  any 
body  to  rub  her  hands  and  see  that  she  did  not  hurt  herself. 
By-and-by  she  got  quiet,  rose  and  went  to  her  book-case,  took 
down  a  volume  of  Coleridge,  and  read  a  short  time,  and  so 
to  bed,  to  sleep  and  wake  from  time  to  time  with  a  sudden 
start  out  of  uneasy  dreams. 

Perhaps  it  is  of  no  great  consequence  what  it  was  in  the 
composition  which  set  her  off  into  this  nervous  paroxysm. 
She  was  in  such  a  state  that  almost  any  slight  agitation 
would  have  brought  on  the  attack,  and  it  was  the  accident 
of  her  transient  excitability,  very  probably,  which  made  a 
trifling  cause  the  seeming  occasion  of  so  much  disturbance. 
The  theme  was  signed  in  the  same  peculiar,  sharp,  slender 
hand,  E.  Venner,  and  was,  of  course,  written  by  that  wild- 
looking  girl  who  had  excited  the  master's  curiosity  and 
prompted  his  question,  as  before  mentioned. 

The  next  morning  the  lady-teacher  looked  pale  and 
wearied,  naturally  enough,  but  she  was  in  her  place  at  the 


54  ELSIE   VENNER. 

usual  hour,  and  Master  Langdon  in  his  own.  The  girls  had 
not  yet  entered  the  schoolroom. 

"You  have  been  ill,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  I  was   not  well  yesterday,"   she   answered.     "  I   had   a 

worry  and  a  kind  of  fright.     It  is  so  dreadful  to  have  charge 

of  all  these  young  souls  and  bodies.     Every  young  girl  ought 

.     to  walk,  locked  close,  arm  in  arm,  between  two  guardian 

angels.     Sometimes  I  faint  almost  with  the  thought  of  all 

that  I  ought  to  do,  and  of  my  own  weakness  and  wants. — 

Tell  me,  are  there  not  natures  born  so  out  of  parallel  with 

i    the  lines  of  natural  law  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can 

bring  them  right  ?  " 

Mr.  Bernard  had  speculated  somewhat,  as  all  thoughtful 
persons  of  his  profession  are  forced  to  do,  on  the  innate 
organic  tendencies  with  which  individuals,  families,  and 
races  are  born.  He  replied,  therefore,  with  a  smile,  as  one 
to  whom  the  question  suggested  a  very  familiar  class  of 
facts. 

"  Why,  of  course.  Each  of  us  is  only  the  f  ooting-up  of  a 
double  column  of  figures  that  goes  back  to  the  first  pair. 
Every  unit  tells, — and  some  of  them  are  plus  and  some 
minus.  If  the  columns  don't  add  up  right,  it  is  commonly 
because  we  can't  make  out  all  the  figures.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  something  may  not  be  added  by  Nature  to  make  up 
for  losses  and  keep  the  race  to  its  average,  but  we  are 
mainly  nothing  but  the  answer  to  a  long  sum  in  addition  and 
subtraction.  No  doubt  there  are  people  born  with  impulses 
at  every  possible  angle  to  the  parallels  of  Nature,  as  you  call 
them.  If  they  happen  to  cut  these  at  right  angles,  of  course 
they  are  beyond  the  reach  of  common  influences.  Slight 
obliquities  are  what  we  have  most  to  do  with  in  education. 
Penitentiaries  and  insane  asylums  take  care  of  most  of  the 
right-angle  cases. — I  am  afraid  I  have  put  it  too  much  like 
a  professor,  and  I  am  only  a  student,  you  know.  Pray,  what 
set  you  to  ask  me  this?  Any  strange  cases  among  the 
scholars?" 

The  meek  teacher's  blue  eyes  met  the  luminous  glance 
that  same  with  the  question.  She,  too,  was  of  gentle  blood, 
— not  meaning  by  that  that  she  was  of  any  noted  lineage,  but 
that  she  came  of  a  cultivated  stock,  never  rich,  but  long 
trained  to  intellectual  callings.  A  thousand  decencies, 
amenities,  reticences,  graces,  which  no  one  thinks  of  until 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW.       55 

he  misses  them,  are  the  traditional  right  of  those  who  spring 
from  such  families.  And  when  two  persons  of  this  excep 
tional  breading  meet  in  the  midst  of  the  common  multitude, 
they  seek  each  other's  company  at  once  by  the  natural  law 
of  elective  affinity.  It  is  wonderful  how  men  and  women 
know  their  peers.  If  two  stranger  queens,  sole  survivors 
of  two  shipwrecked  vessels,  were  cast,  half -naked,  on  a  rock 
together,  each  would  at  once  address  the  other  as  "  Our 
Koyal  Sister." 

Helen  Darley  looked  into  the  dark  eyes  of  Bernard  Lang- 
don,  glittering  with  the  light  which  flashed  from  them  with 
his  question.  Not  as  those  foolish,  innocent  country-girls 
of  the  small  village  did  she  look  into  them,  to  be  fascinated 
and  bewildered,  but  to  sound  them  with  a  calm,  steadfast 
purpose.  "  A^  gentleman,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  read 
his  expression  and  his  features  with  a  woman's  rapid,  but 
exhausting  glance. 

"  A  lady,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  met  her  ques 
tioning  look, — so  brief,  so  quiet,  yet  so  assured,  as  of 
one  whom  necessity  has  taught  to  read  faces  quickly 
without  offense,  as  children  read  the  faces  of  parents,  as 
wives  read  the  faces  of  hard-souled  husbands.  All  this  was 
but  a  few  seconds'  work,  and  yet  the  main  point  was  settled. 
If  there  had  been  any  vulgar  curiosity  or  coarseness  of  any 
kind  lurking  in  his  expression,  she  would  have  detected  it. 
If  she  had  not  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  so  softly  and  kept 
them  there  so  calmly  and  withdrawn  them  so  quietly,  he 
would  not  have  said  to  himself,  "  She  is  a  lady,"  for  that 
word  meant  a  good  deal  to  the  descendant  of  the  courtly 
Wentworths  and  the  scholarly  Langdons. 

"  There  are  strange  people  everywhere,  Mr.  Langdon,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  don't  think  our  schoolroom  is  an  exception. 
I  am  glad  you  believe  in  the  force  of  transmitted  tendencies. 
It  would  break  my  heart,  if  I  did  not  think  that  there  are 
faults  beyond  the  reach  of  everything  but  God's  special 
grace.  I  should  die,  if  I  thought  that  my  negligence  or 
incapacity  was  alone  responsible  for  the  errors  and  sins  of 
those  I  have  charge  of.  Yet  there  are  mysteries  I  do  not 
know  how  to  account  for."  She  looked  all  round  the  school 
room,  and  then  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  Mr.  Langdon,  we  had  a 
girl  that  stole,  in  the  school,  not  long  ago.  Worse  than  that, 
we  had  a  girl  who  tried  to  set  us  on  fire.  Children  of  good 


56  ELSIE   VENNER. 

people,  both  of  them.  And  we  have  a  girl  now  that  frightens 
me  so " 

The  door  opened,  and  three  misses  came  in  to  take  their 
seats:  three  types,  as  it  happened,  of  certain  classes,  into 
which  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  distribute  the 
greater  number  of  the  girls  in  the  school. — Hannah  Martin. 
Fourteen  years  and  three  months  old.  Short-necked, 
thick-waisted,  round-cheeked,  smooth,  vacant  forehead,  large, 
dull  eyes.  Looks  good-natured,  with  little  other  expression. 
Three  buns  in  her  bag,  and  a  large  apple.  Has  a  habit  of 
attacking  her  provisions  in  school-hours. — Rosa  Milburn, 
Sixteen.  Brunette,  with  a  rare-ripe  flush  in  her  cheeKs. 
Color  comes  and  goes  easily.  Eyes  wandering,  apt  to  be 
downcast.  Moody  at  times.  Said  to  be  passionate,  if  irri 
tated.  Finished  in  high  relief.  Carries  shoulders  well  back, 
and  walks  well,  as  if  proud  of  her  woman's  life,  with  a  slight 
rocking  movement,  being  one  of  the  wide-flanged  pattern, 
but  seems  restless, — a  hard  girl  to  look  after.  Has  a  romance 
in  her  pocket,  which  she  means  to  read  in  school-time. — 
-  Charlotte  Ann  Wood.  Fifteen.  The  poetess  before  men 
tioned.  Long,  light  ringlets,  pallid  complexion,  blue  eyes. 
Delicate  child,  half  unfolded.  Gentle,  but  languid  and  de 
spondent.  Does  not  go  much  with  the  other  girls,  but  reads 
a  good  deal,  especially  poetry,  underscoring  favorite  pas 
sages.  Writes  a  great  many  verses,  very  fast,  not  very  cor 
rectly;  full  of  the  usual  human  sentiments,  expressed  in 
the  accustomed  phrases.  Undervitalized.  Sensibilities  not 
covered  with  their  normal  integuments.  A  negative  condi 
tion,  often  confounded  with  genius,  and  sometimes  running 
into  it.  Young  people  who  fall  out  of  line  through  weak 
ness  of  the  active  faculties  are  often  confounded  with  those 
who  step  out  of  it  through  strength  of  the  intellectual  ones. 

The  girls  kept  coming  in,  one  after  another,  or  in  pairs 
or  groups,  until  the  schoolroom  was  nearly  full.  Then  there 
was  a  little  pause,  and  a  light  step  was  heard  in  the  pas 
sage.  The  lady-teacher's  eyes  turned  to  the  door,  and  the 
master's  followed  them  in  the  same  direction. 

A  girl  of  about  seventeen  entered.  She  was  tall  and 
slender,  but  rounded,  with  a  peculiar  undulation  of  move 
ment,  such  as  one  sometimes  sees  in  perfectly  untutored 
country-girls,  whom  Nature,  the  queen  of  graces,  has  taken 
in  hand,  but  more  commonly  in  connection  with  the  very 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW.       57 

highest  breeding  of  the  most  thoroughly  trained  society. 
She  was  a  splendid  scowling  beauty,  black-browed,  with  a 
flash  of  white  teeth  which  was  always  like  a  surprise  when 
her  lips  parted.  She  wore  a  checkered  dress,  of  a  curious  pat 
tern,  and  a  camel's-hair  scarf  twisted  a  little  fantastically 
about  her.  She  went  to  her  seat,  which  she  had  moved  a 
short  distance  apart  from  the  rest,  and,  sitting  down,  began 
playing  listlessly  with  her  gold  chain,  as  was  a  common 
habit  with  her,  coiling  it  and  uncoiling  it  about  her  slender 
wrist,  and  braiding  it  in  with  her  long,  delicate  fingers. 
Presently  she  looked  up.  Black,  piercing  eyes,  not  large, — 
a  low  forehead,  as  low  as  that  of  Clytie  in  the  Townley  bust, 
— black  hair,  twisted  in  heavy  braids, — a  face  that  one  could 
not  help  looking  at  for  its  beauty,  yet  that  one  wanted  to 
look  away  from  for  something  in  its  expression,  and  could 
not  for  those  diamond  eyes.  They  were  fixed  on  the  lady- 
teacher  now.  The  latter  turned  her  own  away,  and  let 
them  wander  over  the  other  scholars.  But  they  could  not 
help  coming  back  again  for  a  single  glance  at  the  wild 
beauty.  The  diamond  eyes  were  on  her  stilk  She  turned 
the  leaves  of  several  of  her  books,  as  if  in  search  of  some 
passage,  and,  when  she  thought  she  had  waited  long  enough 
to  be  safe,  once  more  stole  a  quick  look  at  the  dark  girl. 
The  diamond  eyes  were  still  upon  her.  She  put  her  kerchief 
to  her  forehead,  which  had  grown  slightly  moist ;  she  sighed 
once,  almost  shivered,  for  she  felt  cold;  then,  following 
some  ill-defined  impulse,  which  she  could  not  resist,  she  left 
her  place  and  went  to  the  young;  girl's  desk. 

"  What  do  you  want  of'  nle^Eisie~Yeirner  ?  "  It  was  a> 
strange  question  to  put,  for  the  girl  had  not  signified  that; 
she  wished  the  teacher  to  come  to  her. 

"Nothing,"  she  said.  "I  thought  I  could  make  you 
come."  The  girl  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  a  kind  of  half -whisper. 
She  did  not  lisp,  yet  her  articulation  of  one  or  two  conso 
nants  was  not  absolutely  perfect. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  flower,  Elsie?  "  said  Miss  Barley. 
It  was  a  rare  alpine  flower,  which  was  found  only  in  one 
spot  among  the  rocks  of  The  Mountain. 

"Where  it  grew,"  said  Elsie  Venner.  "Take  it."  The 
teacher  could  not  refuse  her.  The  girl's  finger-tips  touched 
hers  as  she  took  it.  How  cold  they  were  for  a  girl  of  such 
an  organization! 


58  ELSIE    VENNER. 

The  teacher  went  back  to  her  seat.  She  made  an  excuse 
;  for  quitting  the  schoolroom  soon  afterwards.  The  first  thing 
she  did  was  to  fling  the  flower  into  her  fireplace  and  rake 
the  ashes  over  it.  The  second  was  to  wash  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  as  if  she  had  been  another  Lady  Macbeth.  A  poor, 
overtasked,  nervous  creature, — we  must  not  think  too  much 
of  her  fancies. 

After  school  was  done,  she  finished  the  talk  with  the  mas 
ter  which  had  been  so  suddenly  interrupted.  There  were 
things  spoken  of  which  may  prove  interesting  by-and-by,  but 
there  are  other  matters  we  must  first  attend  to. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

THE  EVENT  OP  THE  SEASON. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colonel  Sprowle's  compliments  to  Mr. 
Langdon,  and  requests  the  pleasure  of  his  company  at  a 
social  entertainment  on  Wednesday  evening  next. 

"  Elm  St.     Monday." 

On  paper  of  a  pinkish  color  and  musky  smell,  with  a  large 
S  at  the  top,  and  an  embossed  border.  Envelope  adherent, 
not  sealed.  Addressed, 

-  Langdon,  Esq. 

Present. 

Brought  by  H.  Frederic  Sprowle,  youngest  son  of  the 
Colonel, — the  H.,  of  course,  standing  for  the  paternal  Heze- 
kiah,  put  in  to  please  the  father,  and  reduced  to  its  initial 
to  please  the  mother,  she  having  a  marked  preference  for 
Frederic.  Boy  directed  to  wait  for  an  answer. 

"  Mr.  Langdon  has  the  pleasure  of  accepting  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Colonel  Sprowle's  polite  invitation  for  Wednesday  evening." 

On  plain  paper,  sealed  with  an  initial. 

In  walking  along  the  main  street,  Mr.  Bernard  had  no 
ticed  a  large  house  of  some  pretensions  to  architectural  dis 
play,  namely,  unnecessarily  projecting  eaves,  giving  it  a 
mushroomy  aspect,  wooden  moldings  at  various  available 
points,  and  a  grandiose  arched  portico.  It  looked  a  little 
swaggering  by  the  side  of  one  or  two  of  the  mansion-houses 
that  were  not  far  from  it,  was  painted  too  bright  for  Mr. 
Bernard's  taste,  had  rather  too  fanciful  a  fence  before  it, 
and  had  some  fruit-trees  planted  in  the  front-yard,  which 
to  this  fastidious  young  gentleman  implied  a  defective  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things,  not  promising  in  people  who  lived 
in  so  large  a  house,  with  a  mushroom  roof  and  a  triumphal 
arch  for  its  entrance. 


60  ELSIE    VENNER. 

(genteel  friends,) — as  "the  elegant  residence  of  our  dis 
tinguished  fellow-citizen,  Colonel  Sprowle,"  (Rockland 
Weekly  Universe,) — as  "  the  neew  haouse,"  (old  settlers,)— 
as  "  Spraowle's  Folly,"  (disaffected  and  possibly  envious 
neighbors,) — and  in  common  discourse,  as  "  the  Colonel's." 
Hezekiah  Sprowle,  Esquire,  Colonel  Sprowle  of  the  Com 
monwealth's  Militia,  was  a  retired  "merchant."  An  India 
merchant  he  might,  perhaps,  have  been  properly  called;  for 
he  used  to  deal  in  West  India  goods,  such  as  coffee,  sugar, 
and  molasses,  not  to  speak  of  rum, — also  in  tea,  salt  fish, 
butter  and  cheese,  oil  and  candles,  dried  fruit,  agricultural 
"  p'doose  "  generally,  industrial  products,  such  as  boots  and 
shoes,  and  various  kinds  of  iron  and  wooden  ware,  and  at 
one  end  of  the  establishment  in  calicoes  and  other  stuffs, — 
to  say  nothing  of  miscellaneous  objects  of  the  most  varied 
nature,  from  sticks  of  candy,  which  tempted  in  the  smaller 
youth  with  coppers  in  their  fists,  up  to  ornamental  articles 
of  apparel,  pocket-books,  breast-pins,  gilt-edged  Bibles,  sta 
tionery, — in  short,  everything  which  was  like  to  prove  se 
ductive  to  the  rural  population.  The  Colonel  had  made 
money  in  trade,  and  also  by  matrimony.  He  had  married 
Sarah,  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  late  Tekel  Jordan,  Esq., 
an  old  miser,  who  gave  the  town-clock,  which  carries  his 
name  to  posterity  in  large  gilt  letters  as  a  generous  bene 
factor  of  his  native  place.  In  due  time  the  Colonel  reaped 
the  reward  of  well-placed  affections.  When  his  wife's  in 
heritance  fell  in,  he  thought  he  had  money  enough  to  give 
up  trade,  and  therefore  sold  out  his  "  store,"  called  in  some 
dialects  of  the  English  language  shop,  and  his  business. 

Life  became  pretty  hard  work  to  him,  of  course,  as  soon 
as  he  had  nothing  particular  to  do.  Country  people  with 
money  enough  not  to  have  to  work  are  in  much  more  danger 
than  city  people  in  the  same  condition.  They  get  a  specific 
look  and  character,  which  are  the  same  in  all  the  villages 
.  where  one  studies  them.  They  very  commonly  fall  into  a 
routine,  the  basis  of  which  is  going  to  some  lounging-place 
or  other,  a  barroom,  a  reading-room,  or  something  of  the 
kind.  They  grow  slovenly  in  dress,  and  wear  the  same  hat 
forever.  They  have  a  feeble  curiosity  for  news  perhaps,  which 
they  take  daily  as  a  man  takes  his  bitters,  and  then  fall 
silent  and  think  they  are  thinking.  But  the  mind  goes  out 
under  this  regimen,  like  R  fire  without  a  draught;  and  it  is 


THE   EVENT    OF   THE    SEASON.  61 

not  very  strange,  if  the  instinct  of  mental  self-preservation 
drives  them  to  brandy-and-water,  which  makes  the  hoarse 
whisper  of  memory  musical  for  a  few  brief  moments,  and 
puts  a  weak  leer  of  promise  on  the  features  of  the  hollow- 
eyed  future.  The  Colonel  was  kept  pretty  well  in  hand  as 
yet  by  his  wife,  and  though  it  had  happened  to  him  once 
or  twice  to  come  home  rather  late  at  night  with  a  curious 
tendency  to  say  the  same  thing  twice  and  even  three  times 
over,  it  had  always  been  in  very  cold  weather, — and  every 
body  knows  that  no  one  is  safe  to  drink  a  couple  of  glasses 
of  wine  in  a  warm  room  and  go  suddenly  out  into  the  cold 
air. 

Miss  Matilda  Sprowle,  sole  daughter  of  the  house,  had 
reached  the  age  at  which  young  ladies  are  supposed  in  tech 
nical  language  to  have  come  out,  and  thereafter  are  consid 
ered  to  be  in  company. 

"  There's  one  piece  o'  goods,"  said  the  Colonel  to  his  wife, 
"  that  we  hain't  disposed  of,  nor  got  a  customer  for  yet. 
That's  Matildy.  I  don't  mean  to  set  her  up  at  vaandoo.  I 
guess  she  can  have  her  pick  of  a  dozen." 

"  She's  never  seen  anybody  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Sprowle,  who 
had  had  a  certain  project  for  some  time,  but  had  kept  quiet 
about  it.  "  Let's  have  a  party,  and  give  her  a  chance  to 
show  herself  and  see  some  of  the  young  folks." 

The  Colonel  was  not  very  clear-headed,  and  he  thought, 
naturally  enough,  that  the  party  was  his  own  suggestion, 
because  his  remark  led  to  the  first  starting  of  the  idea.  He 
entered  into  the  plan,  therefore,  with  a  feeling  of  pride  as 
well  as  pleasure,  and  the  great  project  was  resolved  upon  in 
a  family  council  without  a  dissentient  voice.  This  was  the 
party,  then,  to  which  Mr.  Bernard  was  going.  The  town 
had  been  full  of  it  for  a  week.  "  Everybody  was  asked."  So 
everybody  said  that  was  invited.  But  how  in  respect  of 
those  who  were  not  asked?  If  it  had  been  one  of  the  old 
mansion-houses  that  was  giving  a  party,  the  boundary  be 
tween  the  favored  and  the  slighted  families  would  have  been 
known  pretty  well  beforehand,  and  there  would  have  been 
no  great  amount  of  grumbling.  But  the  Colonel,  for  all 
his  title,  had  a  forest  of  poor  relations  and  a  brushwood 
swamp  of  shabby  friends,  for  he  had  scrambled  up  to  for 
tune,  and  now  the  time  was  come  when  he  must  define  his 
new  social  position. 


62  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

This  is  always  an  awkward  business  in  town  or  country. 
An  exclusive  alliance  between  two  powers  is  often  the  same 
thing  as  a  declaration  of  war  against  a  third.  Rockland  was 
soon  split  into  a  triumphant  minority,  invited  to  Mrs. 
Sprowle's  party,  and  a  great  majority,  uninvited,  of  which 
the  fraction  just  on  the  border  line  between  recognized 
"  gentility  "  and  the  level  of  the  ungloved  masses  was  in  an 
active  state  of  excitement  and  indignation. 

"  Who  is  she,  I  should  like  to  know  ? "  said  Mrs.  Saymore, 
the  tailor's  wife.  "  There  was  plenty  of  folks  in  Rockland 
as  good  as  ever  Sally  Jordan  was,  if  she  had  managed  to 
pick  up  a  merchant.  Other  folks  could  have  married  mer 
chants,  if  their  families  wasn't  as  wealthy  as  them  old  skin 
flints  that  willed  her  their  money,"  etc.,  etc.  Mrs.  Saymore 
expressed  the  feeling  of  many  beside  herself.  She  had, 
however,  a  special  right  to  be  proud  of  the  name  she  bore. 
Her  husband  was  own  cousin  to  the  Saymores  of  Freestone 
Avenue  (who  write  the  name  Seymour,  and  claim  to  be  of 
the  Duke  of  Somerset's  family,  showing  a  clear  descent  from 
the  Protector  to  Edward  Seymour,  (1630,) — then  a  jump 
that  would  break  a  herald's  neck  to  one  Seth  Saymore, 
(1783,) — from  whom  to  the  head  of  the  present  family  the 
line  is  clear  again).  Mrs.  Saymore,  the  tailor's  wife,  was 
not  invited,  because  her  husband  mended  clothes.  If  he 
had  confined  himself  strictly  to  making  them,  it  would  have 
put  a  different  face  upon  the  matter. 

The  landlord  of  the  Mountain  House  and  his  lady  were 
invited  to  Mrs.  Sprowle's  party.  Not  so  the  landlord  of 
Pollard's  Tahvern  and  his  lady.  Whereupon  the  latter 
vowed  that  they  would  have  a  party  at  their  house  too,  and 
made  arrangements  for  a  dance  of  twenty  or  thirty  couples, 
to  be  followed  by  an  entertainment.  Tickets  to  this  "  Social 
Ball"  were  soon  circulated,  and,  being  accessible  to  all  at 
a  moderate  price,  admission  to  the  "  Elegant  Supper  "  in 
cluded,  this  second  festival  promised  to  be  as  merry,  if  not 
as  select,  as  the  great  party. 

Wednesday  came.  Such  doings  had  never  been  heard  of 
in  Rockland  as  went  on  that  day  at  the  "  villa."  The  carpet 
had  been  taken  up  in  the  long  room,  so  that  the  young  folks 
might  have  a  dance.  Miss  Matilda's  piano  had  been  moved 
in,  and  two  fiddlers  and  a  clarionet-player  engaged  to  make 
music.  All  kinds  of  lamps  had  been  put  in  requisition,  and 


THE    EVENT    OF    THE    SEASON.  63 

even  colored  wax-candles  figured  on  the  mantel-pieces.  The 
costumes  of  the  family  had  been  tried  on  the  day  before; 
the  Colonel's  black  suit  fitted  exceedingly  well;  his  lady's 
velvet  dress  displayed  her  contours  to  advantage;  Miss  Ma 
tilda's  flowered  silk  was  considered  superb;  the  eldest  son 
of  the  family,  Mr.  T.  Jordan  Sprowle,  called  affectionately 
and  elegantly  "  Geordie,"  voted  himself  "  stunnin' " ;  and 
even  the  small  youth  who  had  borne  Mr.  Bernard's  invita 
tion  was  effective  in  a  new  jacket  and  trousers,  buttony  in 
front,  and  baggy  in  the  reverse  aspect,  as  is  wont  to  be 
the  case  with  the  home-made  garments  of  inland  youngsters. 

Great  preparations  had  been  made  for  the  refection  which 
was  to  be  part  of  the  entertainment.  There  was  much  clink 
ing  of  borrowed  spoons,  which  were  to  be  carefully  counted, 
and  much  clicking  of  borrowed  china,  which  was  to  be  ten 
derly  handled, — for  nobody  in  the  country  keeps  those  vast 
closets  full  of  such  things  which  one  may  see  in  rich  city- 
houses.  JSTot  a  great  deal  could  be  done  in  the  way  of  flowers, 
for  there  were  no  green-houses,  and  few  plants  were  out  as 
yet;  but  there  were  paper  ornaments  for  the  candlesticks, 
and  colored  mats  for  the  lamps,  and  all  the  tassels  of  the 
curtains  and  bells  were  taken  out  of  those  brown  linen  bags, 
in  which,  for  reasons  hitherto  undiscovered,  they  are  habitu 
ally  concealed  in  some  households.  In  the  remoter  apart 
ments  every  imaginable  operation  was  going  on  at  once, — 
roasting,  boiling,  baking,  beating,  rolling,  pounding  in  mor 
tars,  frying,  freezing;  for  there  was  to  be  ice-cream  to-night 
of  domestic  manufacture; — and  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
labors,  Mrs.  Sprowle  and  Miss  Matilda  were  moving  about, 
directing  and  helping  as  they  best  might,  all  day  long. 
When  the  evening  came,  it  might  be  feared  they  would  not 
be  in  just  the  state  of  mind  and  body  to  entertain  com 
pany. 

One  would  like  to  give  a  party  now  and  then,  if  one 

could  be  a  billionnaire. — "  Antoine,  I  am  going  to  have 
twenty  people  to  dine  to-day."  "  Bien,  Madame."  Not  a 
word  or  thought  more  about  it,  but  get  home  in  season  to 
dress,  and  come  dowrn  to  your  own  table,  one  of  your  own 
guests. — "  Giuseppe,  we  are  to  have  a  party  a  week  from  to 
night, — five  hundred  invitations, — there  is  the  list."  The 
day  comes.  "  Madam,  do  you  remember  you  have  your  party 
to-night?"  "Why,  so  I  have!  Everything  right?  supper 


64  ELSIE   VENNER. 

and  all?"  "All  as  it  should  be,  madam."  "  Send  up  Vic- 
torine."  "  Victorine,  full  toilet  for  this  evening, — pink,  dia 
monds,  and  emeralds.  Coiffeur  at  seven.  Allez." — Billion- 
ism,  or  even  millionism,  must  be  a  blessed  kind  of  state, 
with  health  and  clear  conscience  and  youth  and  good  looks, 
— but  most  blessed  in  this,  that  it  takes  off  all  the  mean 
cares  which  give  people  the  three  wrinkles  between  the  eye 
brows,  and  leaves  them  free  to  have  a  good  time  and  make 
others  have  a  good  time,  all  the  way  along  from  the  charity 
that  tips  up  unexpected  loads  of  wood  before  widows'  houses, 
and  leaves  foundling  turkeys  upon  poor  men's  door-steps, 
and  sets  lean  clergymen  crying  at  the  sight  of  anonymous 
fifty-dollar  bills,  to  the  taste  which  orders  a  perfect  banquet 
in  such  sweet  accord  with  every  sense  that  everybody's  na 
ture  flowers  out  full-blown  in  its  golden-glowing,  fragrant 
atmosphere. 

— A  great  party  given  by  the  smaller  gentry  of  the 
interior  is  a  kind  of  solemnity,  so  to  speak.  It  involves  so 
much  labor  and  anxiety, — its  spasmodic  splendors  are  so 
violently  contrasted  with  the  homeliness  of  every-day  fam 
ily-life, — it  is  such  a  formidable  matter  to  break  in  the  raw 
subordinates  to  the  manege  of  the  cloak-room  and  the  table, 
— there  is  such  a  terrible  uncertainty  in  the  results  of  un 
familiar  culinary  operations, — so  many  feuds  are  involved 
in  drawing,  that  fatal  line  which  divides  the  invited  from 
the  uninvited  fraction  of  the  local  universe, — that,  if  the 
notes  requested  the  pleasure  of  the  guests'  company  on 
"  this  solemn  occasion,"  they  would  pretty  nearly  express  the 
true  state  of  things. 

The  Colonel  himself  had  been  pressed  into  the  service. 
He  had  pounded  something  in  the  great  mortar.  He  had 
agitated  a  quantity  of  sweetened  and  thickened  milk  in  what 
was  called  a  cream-freezer.  At  11  o'clock,  A.  M.,  he  retired 
for  a  space.  On  returning,  his  color  was  noted  to  be  some 
what  heightened,  and  he  showed  a  disposition  to  be  jocular 
with  the  female  help, — which  tendency,  displaying  itself  in 
livelier  demonstrations  than  were  approved  at  headquarters, 
led  to  his  being  detailed  to  out-of-door  duties,  such  as  rak 
ing  gravel,  arranging  places  for  horses  to  be  hitched  to,  and 
assisting  in  the  construction  of  an  arch  of  winter-green  at 
the  porch  of  the  mansion. 

A  whiff  from  Mr,   Geordie's  cigar  refreshed  the  toiling 


THE   EVENT    OF   THE    SEASON.  r 

females  from  time  to  time;  for  the  windows  had  to  bt 
opened  occasionally,  while  all  these  operations  were  going 
on,  and  the  youth  amused  himself  with  inspecting  the  in 
terior,  encouraging  the  operatives  now  and  then  in  the 
phrases  commonly  employed  by  genteel  young  men, — for  he 
had  perused  an  odd  volume  of  "  Verdant  Green,"  and  was 
acquainted  with  a  Sophomore  from  one  of  the  fresh-water 
colleges. — "  Go  it  on  the  feed !  "  exclaimed  this  spirited 
young  man.  "  Nothin'  like  a  good  spread.  Grub  enough 
and  good  liquor;  that's  the  ticket.  Guv'nor'll  do  the  heavy 
polite,  and  let  me  alone  for  polishin'  off  the  young  charm 
ers."  And  Mr.  Geordie  looked  expressively  at  a  handmaid 
who  was  rolling  gingerbread,  as  if  he  were  rehearsing  for 
"  Don  Giovanni." 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  the  ladies  were  forced  to  leave 
the  scene  of  their  labors  to  array  themselves  for  the  coining 
festivities.  The  tables  had  been  set  in  a  back  room,  the 
meats  were  ready,  the  pickles  were  displayed,  the  cake  was 
baked,  the  blaiic-mange  had  stiffened,  and  the  ice-cream  had 
frozen. 

At  half  past  seven  o'clock,  the  Colonel,  in  costume,  came 
into  the  front  parlor,  and  proceeded  to  light  the  lamps. 
Some  were  good-humored  enough  and  took  the  hint  of  a 
lighted  match  at  once.  Others  were  as  vicious  as  they  could 
be, — would  not  light  on  any  terms,  any  more  than  if  they 
were  filled  with  water,  or  lighted  and  smoked  one  side  of 
the  chimney,  or  sputtered  a  few  sparks  and  sulked  them 
selves  out,  or  kept  up  a  faint  show  of  burning,  so  that  their 
ground  glasses  looked  as  feebly  phosphorescent  as  so  many 
invalid  fireflies.  With  much  coaxing  and  screwing  and 
pricking,  a  tolerable  illumination  was  at  last  achieved.  At 
eight  there  was  a  grand  rustling  of  silks,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Sprowle  descended  from  their  respective  bowers  or  boudoirs. 
Of  course  they  were  pretty  wrell  tired  by  this  time,  and  very 
glad  to  sit  down, — having  the  prospect  before  them  of  being 
obliged  to  stand  for  hours.  The  Colonel  walked  about  the 
parlor,  inspecting  his  regiment  of  lamps.  By-and-by  Mr. 
Geordie  entered. 

"  Mph !  mph !  "  he  sniffed,  as  he  came  in.  "  You  smell  of 
lamp-smoke  here." 

That  always  galls  people, — to  have  a  newcomer  accuse 
them  of  smoke  or  close  air,  which  they  have  got  used  to  and 


66  ELSIE   VENNER. 

do  not  perceive.  The  Colonel  raged  at  the  thought  of  his 
lamps'  smoking,  and  tongued  a  few  anathemas  inside  of  his 
shut  teeth,  but  turned  down  two  or  three  wicks  that  burned 
higher  than  the  rest. 

Master  H.  Frederic  next  made  his  appearance,  with  ques 
tionable  marks  upon  his  fingers  and  countenance.  Had  been 
tampering  with  something  brown  and  sticky.  His  elder 
brother  grew  playful,  and  caught  him  by  the  baggy  reverse 
of  his  more  essential  garment. 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Sprowle,—"  there's  the  bell!" 

Everybody  took  position  at  once,  and  began  to  look  very 
smiling  and  altogether  at  ease. — False  alarm.  Only  a  parcel 
of  spoons, — "  loaned,"  as  the  inland  folks  say  when  they 
mean  lent,  by  a  neighbor. 

"  Better  late  than  never !  "  said  the  Colonel ;  "  let  me  heft 
them  spoons." 

Mrs.  Sprowle  came  down  into  her  chair  again,  as  if  all 
her  bones  had  been  bewitched  out  of  her. 

"I'm  pretty  night  beat  out  a'ready,"  said  she,  "before 
any  of  the  folks  has  come." 

They  sat  silent  awhile,  waiting  for  the  first  arrival. 
How  nervous  they  got!  and  how  their  senses  were  sharp 
ened! 

"Hark!"   said  Miss   Matilda,— " what's  that  rumblin'?" 

It  was  a  cart  going  over  a  bridge  more  than  a  mile  off, 
which  at  any  other  time  they  would  not  have  heard.  After 
this  there  was  a  lull,  and  poor  Mrs.  Sprowle's  head  nodded 
once  or  twice.  Presently  a  crackling  and  grinding  of  gravel ; 
— how  much  that  means,  when  we  are  waiting  for  those 
whom  we  long  or  dread  to  see!  Then  a  change  in  the  tone 
of  the  gravel-crackling. 

"  Yes,  they  have  turned  in  at  our  gate.  They're  comin' ! 
Mother,  mother !  " 

Everybody  in  position,  smiling  and  at  ease.  Bell  rings. 
Enter  the  first  set  of  visitors.  The  Event  of  the  Season  has 
begun. 

"Law!  it's  nothin'  but  the  Cranes'  folks!  I  do  believe 
Mahala's  come  in  that  old  green  de-laine  she  wore  at  the 
Surprise  Party !  " 

Miss  Matilda  had  peeped  through  a  crack  of  the  door  and 
made  this  observation  and  the  remark  founded  thereon. 
Continuing  her  attitude  of  attention,  she  overheard  Mrs. 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         67 

Crane  and  her  two  daughters  conversing  in  the  attiring- 
room,  up  one  flight. 

"  How  fine  everything  is  in  the  great  house !  "  said  Mrs. 
Crane, — "  jest  look  at  the  picters !  " 

"  Matildy  Sprowle's  drawin's,"  said  Ada  Azuba,  the  eldest 
daughter. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mahala  Crane,  her  younger  sis 
ter, — a  wide-awake  girl,  who  hadn't  been  to  school  for  noth 
ing,  and  performed  a  little  on  the  lead  pencil  herself.  "  I 
should  like  to  know  whether  that's  a  hay-cock  or  a  moun 
tain!" 

Miss  Matilda  winced;  for  this  must  refer  to  her  favorite 
monochrome,  executed  by  laying  on  heavy  shadows  and 
stumping  them  down  into  mellow  harmony, — the  style  of 
drawing  which  is  taught  in  six  lessons,  and  the  kind  of 
specimen  which  is  executed  in  something  less  than  one  hour. 
Parents  and  other  very  near  relatives  are  sometimes  grati 
fied  with  these  productions,  and  cause  them  to  be  framed  and 
hung  up,  as  in  the  present  instance. 

"I  guess  Ave  won't  go  down  jest  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Crane, 
"  as  folks  don't  seem  to  have  come." 

So  she  began  a  systematic  inspection  of  the  dressing-room 
and  its  conveniences. 

"  Mahogany  four-poster, — come  from  the  Jordans',  I  cal'- 
late.  Marseilles  quilt.  Humes  all  round  the  piller.  Chintz 
curtings, — jest  put  up, — o'  purpose  for  the  party,  I'll  lay  ye 
a  dollar. — What  a  nice  washbowl!"  (Taps  it  with  a  white 
knuckle  belonging  to  a  red  finger.)  "  Stone  chaney. — Here's 
a  bran'-new  brush  and  comb, — and  here's  a  scent-bottle. 
Come  here,  girls,  and  fix  yourselves  in  the  glass,  and  scent 
your  pocket-handkerchers." 

And  Mrs.  Crane  bedewed  her  own  kerchief  with  some  of 
the  eau  de  Cologne  of  native  manufacture, — said  on  its  label 
to  be  much  superior  to  the  German  article. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Mrs.  and  the  Miss  Cranes  when  the  bell 
rang  and  the  next  guests  were  admitted.  Deacon  and  Mrs. 
Soper, — Deacon  Soper  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Fairweather's  church, 
and  his  lady.  Mrs.  Deacon  Soper  was  directed,  of  course, 
to  the  ladies'  dressing-room,  and  her  husband  to  the  other 
apartment,  where  gentlemen  were  to  leave  their  outside  coats 
and  hats.  Then  came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Briggs,  and  then  the 
three  Miss  Spinneys,  then  Silas  Peckham,  Head  of  the 


68  ELSIE   VENDEE. 

Apollinean  Institute,  and  Mrs.  Peckham,  and  more  after 
them,  until  at  last  the  ladies'  dressing-room  got  so  full  that 
one  might  have  thought  it  was  a  trap  none  of  them  could 
get  out  of.  In  truth,  they  all  felt  a  little  awkwardly.  No 
body  wanted  to  be  first  to  venture  down-stairs.  At  last  Mr. 
Silas  Peckham  thought  it  was  time  to  make  a  move  for  the 
parlor,  and  for  this  purpose  presented  himself  at  the  door 
of  the  ladies'  dressing  room. 

"  Lorindy,  my  dear !  "  he  exclaimed  to  Mrs.  Peckham, — 
"  I  think  there  can  be  no  impropriety  in  our  joining  the 
family  down-stairs." 

Mrs.  Peckham  laid  her  large,  flaccid  arm  in  the  sharp 
angle  made  by  the  black  sleeve  which  held  the  bony  limb 
her  husband  offered,  and  the  two  took  the  stair  and  struck 
out  for  the  parlor.  The  ice  was  broken,  and  the  dressing- 
room  began  to  empty  itself  into  the  spacious,  lighted  apart 
ments  below. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  slid  into  the  room  with  Mrs.  Peckham 
alongside,  like  a  shad  convoying  a  jelly-fish. 

"  Good-evenin',  Mrs.  Sprowle !  I  hope  I  see  you  well  this 
evenin'.  How's  your  haalth,  Colonel  Sprowle  ? " 

"  Very  well,  much  obleeged  to  you.  Hope  you  and  your 
good  lady  are  well.  Much  pleased  to  see  you.  Hope  you'll 
enjoy  yourselves.  We've  laid  out  to  have  everything  in 
good  shape, — spared  no  trouble  nor  ex — 

"  pense," — said  Silas  Peckham. 

Mrs.  Colonel  Sprowle,  who,  you  remember,  was  a  Jordan, 
had  nipped  the  Colonel's  statement  in  the  middle  of  the  word 
Mr.  Peckham  finished,  with  a  look  that  jerked  him  like  one 
of  those  sharp  twitches  women  keep  giving  a  horse  when 
they  get  a  chance  to  drive  one. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crane,  Miss  Ada  Azuba,  and  Miss  Mahala 
Crane  made  their  entrance.  There  had  been  a  discussion 
about  the  necessity  and  propriety  of  inviting  this  family, 
the  head  of  which  kept  a  small  shop  for  hats  and  boots  and 
shoes.  The  Colonel's  casting  vote  had  carried  it  in  the 
affirmative. — How  terribly  the  poor  old  green  de-laine  did 
cut  up  in  the  blaze  of  so  many  lamps  and  candles. 

Deluded  little  wretch,  male  or  female',  in  town  or 

country,  going  to  your  first  great  party,  how  little  you  know 
the  nature  of  the  ceremony  in  which  you  are  to  bear  the 
part  of  victim!  What!  are  not  these  garlands  and  gauzy 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         69 

mists  and  many-colored  streamers  which  adorn  you,  is  not 
this  music  which  welcomes  you,  this  radiance  that  glows 
about  you,  meant  solely  for  your  enjoyment,  young  miss  of 
seventeen  or  eighteen  summers,  now  for  the  first  time  swim 
ming  into  the  frothy,  chatoyant,  sparkling,  undulating  sea 
of  laces,  and  silks,  and  satins,  and  white-armed,  flower- 
crowned  maidens  struggling  in  their  waves,  beneatt  the 
lusters  that  make  the  false  summer  of  the  drawing-room? 

Stop  at  the  threshold!  This  is  a  hall  of  judgment  you 
are  entering;  the  court  is  in  session;  and  if  you  move  five 
steps  forward,  you  will  be  at  its  bar. 

There  was  a  tribunal  once  in  France,  as  you  may  remem 
ber,  called  the  Ghambre  Ardente,  the  Burning  Chamber. 
It  was  hung  all  round  with  lamps,  and  hence  its  name.  The 
burning  chamber  for  the  trial  of  young  maidens  is  the 
blazing  ball-room.  What  have  they  full-dressed  you,  or 
rather  half -dressed  you  for,  do  you  think?  To  make  you 
look  pretty,  of  course! — Why  have  they  hung  a  chandelier 
above  you,  flickering  all  over  with  flames,  so  that  it  searches 
you  like  the  noonday  sun,  and  your  deepest  dimple  cannot 
hold  a  shadow?  To  give  brilliancy  to  the  gay  scene,  no 
doubt! — No,  my  dear!  Society  is  inspecting  you,  and  it 
finds  undisguised  surfaces  and  strong  lights  a  convenience 
in  the  process.  The  dance  answers  the  purpose  of  the  re 
volving  pedestal  upon  which  the  "White  Captive"  turns, 
to  show  us  the  soft,  kneaded  marble,  which  looks  as  if  it  had 
never  been  hard, 'in  all  its  manifold  aspects  of  living  loveli 
ness.  ~No  mercy  for  you,  my  love!  Justice,  strict  justice, 
you  shall  certainly  have, — neither  more  nor  less.  Tor,  look 
you,  there  are  dozens,  scores,  hundreds,  with  whom  you  must 
be  weighed  in  the  balance;  and  you  have  got  to  learn  that 
the  "  struggle  for  life "  Mr.  Charles  Darwin  talks  about 
reaches  to  vertebrates  clad  in  crinoline,  as  well  as  to  mol- 
lusks  in  shells,  or  articulates  in  jointed  scales,  or  anything 
that  fights  for  breathing-room,  and  food,  and  love  in  any 
coat  of  fur  or  feather!  Happy  they  who  can  flash  defiance 
from  bright  eyes  and  snowy  shoulders  back  into  the  pendants 
of  the  insolent  lusters ! 

Miss  Mahala  Crane  did  not  have  these  reflections; 

and  no  young  girl  ever  did,  or  ever  will,  thank  Heaven! 
Her  keen  eyes  sparkled  under  her  plainly  parted  hair,  and 
the  green  de-laine  molded  itself  in  those  unmistakable  lines 


70  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

of  natural  symmetry  in  which  Nature  indulges  a  small  shop 
keeper's  daughter  occasionally  as  well  as  a  wholesale  dealer's 
young  ladies.  She  would  have  liked  a  new  dress  as  much  as 
any  other  girl,  but  she  meant  to  go  and  have  a  good  time 
at  any  rate. 

The  guests  were  now  arriving  in  the  drawing-room  pretty 
fast,  and  the  Colonel's  hand  began  to  burn  a  good  deal  with 
the  sharp  squeezes  which  many  of  the  visitors  gave  it.  Con 
versation  which  had  begun  like  a  summer-shower,  in  scat 
tering  drops,  was  fast  becoming  continuous,  and  occasionally 
rising  into  gusty  swells,  with  now  and  then  a  broad-chested 
laugh  from  some  Captain,  or  Major,  or  other  military  per 
sonage, — for  it  may  be  noted  that  all  large  and  loud  men  in 
the  unpaved  districts  bear  military  titles. 

Deacon  Soper  came  up  presently,  and  entered  into  con 
versation  with  Colonel  Sprowle. 

"  I  hope  to  see  our  pastor  present  this  evenin', "  said  the 
Deacon. 

"  I  don't  feel  quite  sure,"  the  Colonel  answered.  "  His 
dyspepsy  has  been  bad  on  him  lately.  He  wrote  to  say,  that, 
Providence  permitting  it  would  be  agreeable  to  him  to  take 
a  part  in  the  exercises  of  the  evenin';  but  I  mistrusted  he 
didn't  mean  to  come.  To  tell  the  truth,  Deacon  Soper,  I 
rather  guess  he  don't  like  the  idee  of  dancin',  and  some  of 
the  other  little  arrangements." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  I  know  there's  some  condemns 
dancin'.  I've  heerd  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  it  among  the 
folks  round.  Some  have  it  that  it  never  brings  a  blessin' 
on  a  house  to  have  dancin'  in  it.  Judge  Tileston  died,  you 
remember,  within  a  month  after  he  had  his  great  ball,  twelve 
year  ago,  and  some  thought  it  was  in  the  natur'  of  a  judg 
ment.  I  don't  believe  in  any  of  them  notions.  If  a  man 
happened  to  be  struck  dead  the  night  after  he'd  been  givin' 
a  ball,"  (the  Colonel  loosened  his  black  stock  a  little,  and 
winked  and  swallowed  two  or  three  times,)  "  I  shouldn't 
call  it  a  judgment, — I  should  call  it  a  coincidence.  But 
I'm  a  little  afraid  our  pastor  won't  come.  Somethin'  or 
other's  the  matter  with  Mr.  Fairweather.  I  should  sooner 
expect  to  see  the  old  doctor  come  over  out  of  the  Orthodox 
parsonage-house." 

"I've  asked  him,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"Well?"  said  Deacon  Soper. 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         71 

"  He  said  he  should  like  to  come,  but  he  didn't  know  what 
his  people  would  say.  For  his  part,  he  loved  to  see  young 
folks  havin'  their  sports  together,  and  very  often  felt  as  if 
he  should  like  to  be  one  of  'em  himself.  '  But,'  says  I,  '  Doc 
tor,  I  don't  say  there  won't  be  a  little  dancin'.'  '  Don't ! ' 
says  he,  *  for  I  want  Letty  to  go,'  (she's  his  granddaughter 
that's  been  stay  in'  with  him,)  '  and  Letty 's  mighty  fond  of 
dancin'.  You  know,'  says  the  Doctor,  '  it  isn't  my  business 
to  settle  whether  other  people's  children  should  dance  or 
not.'  And  the  Doctor  looked  as  if  he  should  like  to  riga- 
doon  and  sashy  across  as  well  as  the  young  one  he  was  talkin' 
about.  He's  got  blood  in  him,  the  old  Doctor  has.  I  wish 
our  little  man  and  him  would  swap  pulpits." 

Deacon  Soper  started  and  looked  up  into  the  Colonel's 
face,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  was  in  earnest. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  and  his  lady  joined  the  group. 

"  Is  this  to  be  a  Temperance  Celebration,  Mrs.  Sprowle  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Silas  Peckham. 

Mrs.  Sprowle  replied,  "  that  there  would  be  lemonade  and 
srub  for  those  that  preferred  such  drinks,  but  that  the 
Colonel  had  given  folks  to  understand  that  he  didn't  mean 
to  set  in  judgment  on  the  marriage  in  Canaan,  and  that 
those  that  didn't  like  srub  and  such  things  would  find  some- 
thin'  that  would  suit  them  better." 

Deacon  Soper's  countenance  assumed  a  certain  air  of  re 
strained  cheerfulness.  The  conversation  rose  into  one  of 
its  gusty  paroxysms  just  then.  Master  H.  Frederic  got  be 
hind  a  door  and  began  performing  the  experiment  of  stop 
ping  and  unstopping  his  ears  in  rapid  alternation,  greatly 
rejoicing  in  the  singular  effect  of  mixed  conversation  chopped 
very  small,  like  the  contents  of  a  mince-pie, — or  meat 
pie,  as  it  is  more  forcibly  called  in  the  deep-rutted  villages 
lying  along  the  unsalted  streams.  All  at  once  it  grew  silent 
just  round  the  door,  where  it  had  been  loudest, — and  the 
silence  spread  itself  like  a  stain,  till  it  hushed  everything 
but  a  few  corner-duets.  A  dark,  sad-looking,  middle-aged 
gentleman  entered  the  parlor,  with  a  young  lady  on  his  arm, 
— his  daughter,  as  it  seemed,  for  she  was  not  wholly  unlike 
him  in  feature,  and  of  the  same  dark  complexion. 

"  Dudley  Venner !  "  exclaimed  a  dozen  people,  in  startled, 
but  half-suppressed  tones. 

<(  What  can  have  brought  Dudley  out  to-night  ?  "  said  Jef- 


72  ELSIE   VENNER. 

ferson  Buck,  a  young  fellow,  who  had  been  interrupted  in 
one  of  the  corner-duets  which  he  was  executing  in  concert 
with  Miss  Susy  Pettingill. 

"  How  do  I  know,  Jeff  ? "  was  Miss  Susy's  answer.  Then, 
after  a  pause, — •"  Elsie  made  him  come,  I  guess.  Go  ask 
Dr.  Kittredge;  he  knows  all  about  'em  both,  they  say." 

Dr.  Kittredge,  the  leading  physician  of  Rockland,  was 
a  shrewd  old  man,  who  looked  pretty  keenly  into  his  patients 
through  his  spectacles,  and  pretty  widely  at  men,  women, 
and  things  in  general  over  them.  Sixty-three  years  old, — 
just  the  year  of  the  grand  climacteric.  A  bald  crown,  as 
every  doctor  should  have.  A  consulting  practitioner's 
mouth;  that  is,  movable  round  the  corners  while  the  case  is 
under  examination,  but  both  corners  well  drawn  down  and 
kept  so  when  the  final  opinion  is  made  up.  In  fact,  the  Doc 
tor  was  of  ten  sent  for  to  act  as  "  caounsel,"  all  over  the 
county,  and  beyond  it.  He  kept  three  or  four  horses,  some 
times  riding  in  the  saddle,  commonly  driving  in  a  sulky, 
pretty  fast,  and  looking  straight  before  him,  so  that  people 
got  out  of  the  way  of  bowing  to  him  as  he  passed  on  the  road. 
There  was  some  talk  about  his  not  being  so  long-sighted  as 
other  folks,  but  his  old  patients  laughed  and  looked  knowing 
when  this  was  spoken  of. 

The  Doctor  knew  a  good  many  things  besides  how  to  drop 
tinctures  and  shake  out  powders.  Thus,  he  knew  a  horse, 
and,  what  is  harder  to  understand,  a  horse-dealer,  and  was  a 
match  for  him.  He  knew  what  a  nervous  woman  is,  and 
how  to  manage  her.  He  could  tell  at  a  glance  when  she  is  in 
that  condition  of  unstable  equilibrium  in  which  a  rough 
word  is  like  a  blow  to  her,  and  the  touch  of  unmagnetized 
fingers  reverses  all  her  nervous  currents.  It  is  not  every 
body  that  enters  into  the  soul  of  Mozart's  or  Beethoven's 
harmonies;  and  there  are  vital  symphonies  in  B  flat,  and 
other  low  sad  keys,  which  a  doctor  may  know  as  little  of  as 
a  hurdy-gurdy  player  of  the  essence  of  those  divine  musical 
mysteries. 

The  Doctor  knew  the  difference  between  what  men 
say  and  what  they  mean  as  well  as  most  people.  When 
he  was  listening  to  common  talk,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
looking  over  his  spectacles ;  if  he  lifted  his  head  so  as  to  look 
through  them  at  the  person  talking,  he  was  busier  with  that 
person's  thoughts  than  with  his  words. 


THE    EVENT    OF    THE    SEASON.  73 

Jefferson  Buck  was  not  bold  enough  to  confront  the  Doc 
tor  with  Miss  Susy's  question,  for  he  did  not  look  as  if  he 
were  in  the  mood  to  answer  queries  put  by  curious  young 
people.  His  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  the  dark  girl,  every 
movement  of  whom  he  seemed  to  follow. 

She  was,  indeed,  an  apparition  of  wild  beauty,  so  unlike 
the  girls  about  her  that  it  seemed  nothing  more  than  natural, 
that,  when  she  moved,  the  groups  should  part  to  let  her  pass 
through  them,  and  that  she  should  carry  the  center  of  all 
looks  and  thoughts  with  her.  She  was  dressed  to  please  her 
own  fancy,  evidently,  with  small  regard  to  the  modes  de 
clared  correct  by  the  Rockland  milliners  and  mantua-makers. 
Her  heavy  black  hair  lay  in  a  braided  coil,  with  a  long  gold 
pin  shot  through  it  like  a  javelin.  Round  her  neck  was  a 
golden  torque,  a  round,  cord-like  chain,  such  as  the  Gauls 
used  to  wear:  the  "Dying  Gladiator"  has  it.  Her  dress 
was  a  grayish  watered  silk;  her  collar  was  pinned  with  a 
flashing  diamond  brooch,  the  stones  looking  as  fresh  as  morn 
ing  dew-drops,  but  the  silver  setting  of  the  past  generation; 
her  arms  were  bare,  round,  but  slender  rather  than  large,  in 
keeping  with  her  lithe  round  figure.  On  her  wrists  she  wore 
bracelets:  one  was  a  circlet  of  enameled  scales;  the  other 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  Cleopatra's  asp,  with  its 
body  turned  to  gold  and  its  eyes  to  emeralds. 

Her  father — for  Dudley  Venner  was  her  father — looked 
like  a  man  of  culture  and  breeding,  but  melancholy  and  with 
a  distracted  air,  as  one  whose  life  had  met  some  fatal  cross 
or  blight.  He  saluted  hardly  anybody  except  his  entertain 
ers  and  the  Doctor.  One  would  have  said,  to  look  at  him, 
that  he  was  not  at  the  party  by  choice;  and  it  was  natural 
enough  to  think,  with  Susy  Pettingill,  that  it  must  have 
been  a  freak  of  the  dark  girl's  which  brought  him  there,  for 
he  had  the  air  of  a  shy  and  sad-hearted  recluse. 

It  was  hard  to  say  what  could  have  brought  Elsie  Venner 
to  the  party.  Hardly  anybody  seemed  to  know  her,  and  she 
seemed  not  at  all  disposed  to  make  acquaintances.  Here  and 
there  was  one  of  the  older  girls  from  the  Institute,  but  she 
appeared  to  have  nothing  in  common  with  them.  Even  in 
the  schoolroom,  it  may  be  remembered,  she  sat  apart  by  her 
own  choice,  and  now  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  she  made  a 
circle  of  isolation  round  herself.  Drawing  her  arm  out  of 
her  father's  she  stood  against  the  wall,  and  looked,  with  a 


74  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

strange,  cold  glitter  in  her  eyes,  at  the  crowd  which  moved 
and  babbled  before  her. 

The  old  Doctor  came  up  to  her  by-and-by. 

"  Well,  Elsie,  I  am  quite  surprised  to  find  you  here.  Do 
tell  me  how  you  happened  to  do  such  a  good-natured  thing 
as  to  let  us  see  you  at  such  a  great  party." 

"  It's  been  dull  at  the  mansion-house,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
wanted  to  get  out  of  it.  It's  too  lonely  there, — there's  no 
body  to  hate  since  Dick's  gone." 

The  Doctor  laughed  good-naturedly,  as  if  this  were  an  amus 
ing  bit  of  pleasantry, — but  he  lifted  his  head  and  dropped 
his  eyes  a  little,  so  as  to  see  her  through  his  spectacles. 
She  narrowed  her  lids  slightly,  as  one  often  sees  a  sleepy  cat 
narrow  hers, — somewhat  as  you  may  remember  our  famous 
Margaret  used  to,  if  you  remember  her  at  all — so  that  her 
eyes  looked  very  small,  but  bright  as  the  diamonds  on  her 
breast.  The  old  Doctor  felt  very  oddly  as  she  looked  at  him ; 
he  did  not  like  the  feeling,  so  he  dropped  his  head  and  lifted 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  over  his  spectacles  again. 

"  And  how  have  you  all  been  at  the  mansion-house  ?  "  said 
the  Doctor. 

"  Oh,  well  enough.  But  Dick's  gone,  and  there's  nobody 
left  but  Dudley  and  I  and  the  people.  I'm  tired  of  it. 
What  kills  anybody  quickest,  Doctor  ?  "  Then,  in  a  whisper, 
"  I  ran  away  again  the  other  day,  you  know." 

"  Where  did  you  go  ?  "  The  Doctor  spoke  in  a  low,  serious 
tone. 

"  Oh,  to  the  old  place.     Here,  I  brought  this  for  you." 

The  Doctor  started  as  she  handed  him  a  flower  of  the 
Atragene  Americana,  for  he  knew  that  there  was  only  one 
spot  where  it  grew,  and  that  not  one  where  any  rash  foot, 
least  of  all  a  thin-shod  woman's  foot,  should  venture. 

"  How  long  were  you  gone  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Only  one  night.  You  should  have  heard  the  horns  blow 
ing  and  the  guns  firing.  Dudley  was  frightened  out  of  his 
wits.  Old  Sophy  told  him  she'd  had  a  dream,  and  that  I 
should  be  found  in  Dead  Man's  Hollow,  with  a  great  rock 
lying  on  me.  They  hunted  all  over  it,  but  they  didn't  find 
me, — I  was  farther  up." 

Doctor  Kittredge  looked  cloudy  and  worried  while  she  was 
speaking,  but  forced  a  pleasant  professional  smile,  as  he  said 
cheerily,  as  if  wishing  to  change  the  subject, — 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         75 

"  Have  a  good  dance  this  evening,  Elsie.  The  fiddlers  are 
tuning  up.  Where's  the  young  master?  Has  he  come  yet? 
or  is  he  going  to  be  late,  with  the  other  great  folks  ? " 

The  girl  turned  away  without  answering  and  looked  to 
ward  the  door. 

The  "  great  folks,"  meaning  the  mansion-house  gentry, 
were  just  beginning  to  come ;  Dudley  Venner  and  his  daugh 
ter  had  been  the  first  of  them.  Judge  Thornton,  white- 
headed,  fresh-faced,  as  good  at  sixty  as  he  was  at  forty,  with 
a  youngish  second  wife,  and  one  noble  daughter,  Arabella, 
who,  they  said,  knew  as  much  law  as  her  father,  a  stately, 
Portia-like  girl,  fit  for  a  premier's  wife,  not  like  to  find  her 
match  even  in  the  great  cities  she  sometimes  visted;  the 
Trecothicks,  the  family  of  a  merchant,  (in  the  larger  sense,) 
who,  having  made  himself  rich  enough  by  the  time  he  had 
reached  middle  life,  threw  down  his  ledger  as  Sylla  did  his 
dagger,  and  retired  to  make  a  little  paradise  around  him  in 
one  of  the  statliest  residences  of  the  town,  a  family  inherit 
ance;  the  Vaughans,  an  old  Rockland  race,  descended  from 
its  first  settlers,  Toryish  in  tendency  in  Revolutionary  times, 
and  barely  escaping  confiscation  or  worse;  the  Dunhams,  a 
new  family,  dating  its  gentility  only  as  far  back  as  the  Hon 
orable  Washington  Dunham,  M.  C.,  but  turning  out  a  clever 
boy  or  two  that  went  to  college,  and  some  showy  girls  with 
white  necks  and  fat  arms  who  had  picked  up  professional 
husbands:  these  were  the  principal  mansion-house  people. 
All  of  them  had  made  it  a  point  to  come ;  and  as  each  of  them 
entered,  it  seemed  to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Sprowle  that  the 
lamps  burned  up  with  a  more  cheerful  light,  and  that  the 
fiddles  which  sounded  from  the  uncarpeted  room  were  all 
half  a  tone  higher  and  half  a  beat  quicker. 

Mr.  Bernard  came  in  later  than  any  of  them ;  he  had  been 
busy  with  his  new  duties.  He  looked  well;  and  this  is  say 
ing  a  good  deal;  for  nothing  but  a  gentleman  is  endurable 
in  full  dress.  Hair  that  masses  well,  a  head  set  on  with  an 
air,  a  neckerchief  tied  cleverly  by  an  easy,  practiced  hand, 
close-fitting  gloves,  feet  well  shaped  and  well  covered, — these 
advantages  can  make  us  forgive  the  odious  sable  broadcloth 
suit,  which  appears  to  have  been  adopted  by  society  on  the 
same  principle  that  condemned  all  the  Venetian  gondolas  to 
perpetual  and  uniform  blackness.  Mr.  Bernard,  introduced 
by  Mr.  Geordie.  made  his  bow  to  the  Colonel  and  his  lady 


76  ELSIE   VENNER. 

and  to  Miss  Matilda,  from  whom  he  got  a  particularly  gra 
cious  courtesy,  and  then  began  looking  about  him  for  acquaint 
ances.  He  found  two  or  three  faces  he  knewT, — many  more 
strangers.  There  was  Silas  Peckham, — there  was  no  mis 
taking  him ;  there  was  the  inelastic  amplitude  of  Mrs.  Peck- 
ham;  few  of  the  Apollinean  girls,  of  course,  they  not  being 
recognized  members  of  society, — but  there  is  one  with  the 
flame  in  her  cheeks  and  the  fire  in  her  eyes,  the  girl  of  vigor 
ous  tints  and  emphatic  outlines,  whom  we  saw  entering  the 
schoolroom  the  other  day.  Old  Judge  Thornton  has  his  eyes 
on  her,  and  the  Colonel  steals  a  look  every  now  and  then 
at  the  red  brooch  which  lifts  itself  so  superbly  into  the  light, 
as  if  he  thought  it  a  wonderfully  becoming  ornament.  Mr. 
Bernard  himself  was  not  displeased  with  the  general  effect  of 
the  rich-blooded  schoolgirl,  as  she  stood  under  the  bright 
lamps,  fanning  herself  in  the  warm,  languid  air,  fixed  in  a 
kind  of  passionate  surprise  at  the  new  life  which  seemed  to 
be  flowering  out  in  her  consciousness.  Perhaps  he  looked  at 
her  somewhat  steadily,  as  some  others  had  done ;  at  any  rate, 
she  seemed  to  feel  that  she  was  looked  at,  as  people  often  do, 
and,  turning  her  eyes  suddenly  on  him,  caught  his  own  on 
her  face,  gave  him  a  half -bashful  smile,  and  threw  in  a  blush 
involuntarily  which  made  it  more  charming. 

"  What  can  I  do  better,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  than  have  a 
dance  with  Rosa  Milburn  ? "  So  he  carried  his  handsome 
pupil  into  the  next  room  and  took  his  place  with  her  in  a 
cotillion.  Whether  the  breath  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  could 

!  intoxicate  like  the  cup  of  Circe, — whether  a  woman  is  ever 
phosphorescent  with  the  luminous  vapor  of  life  that  she  ex 
hales, — these  and  other  questions  which  relate  to  occult  in- 

'  fluences  exercised  by  certain  women,  we  will  not  now  discuss. 
It  is  enough  that  Mr.  Bernard  was  sensible  of  a  strange  fas 
cination,  not  wholly  new  to  him,  nor  unprecedented  in  the 
history  of  human  experience,  but  always  a  revelation  when 
it  comes  over  us  for  the  first  or  the  hundredth  time,  so  pale 
is  the  most  recent  memory  by  the  side  of  the  passing  moment 
with  the  flush  of  any  new-born  passion  on  its  cheek.  Re 
member  that  Nature  makes  every  man  love  all  women,  and 
trusts  the  trivial  matter  of  special  choice  to  the  commonest 
accident. 

If  Mr.  Bernard  had  had  nothing  to  distract  his  attention, 
he  might  have  thought  too  much  about  his  handsome  partner, 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         77 

and  then  gone  home  and  dreamed  about  her,  which  is  always 
dangerous,  and  waked  up  thinking  of  her  still,  and  then  be 
gun  to  get  deeply  interested  in  her  studies,  and  so  on, 
through  the  whole  syllogism  which  ends  in  Nature's  supreme 
quod  erat  demonstrandum.  What  was  there  to  distract  him 
or  disturb  him  ?  Pie  did  not  know, — but  there  was  something. 
This  sumptuous  creature,  this  Eve  just  within  the  gate  of  an 
untried  Paradise,  untutored  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  but 
on  tiptoe  to  reach  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, — alive 
to  the  moist  vitality  of  that  warm  atmosphere  palpitating 
with  voices  and  music,  as  the  flower  of  some  dioecious  plant 
which  has  grown  in  a  lone  corner  and  suddenly  unfolding 
its  corolla  on  some  hot-breathing  June  evening,  feels  that 
the  air  is  perfumed  with  strange  odors  and  loaded  with 
golden  dust  wafted  from  those  other  blossoms  with  which  its 
double  life  is  shared, — this  almost  over-womanized  woman 
might  well  have  bewitched  him,  but  that  he  had  a  vague 
sense  of  a  counter-charm.  It  was,  perhaps,  only  the  same 
consciousness  that  someone  was  looking  at  him  which  he 
himself  had  just  given  occasion  to  in  his  partner.  Presently, 
in  one  of  the  turns  of  the  dance,  he  felt  his  eyes  drawn  to 
a  figure  he  had  not  distinctly  recognized,  though  he  had 
dimly  felt  its  presence,  and  saw  that  Elsie  Venner  was  look 
ing  at  him  as  if  she  saw  nothing  else  but  him.  He  was  not 
a  nervous  person,  like  the  poor  lady  teacher,  yet  the  glitter 
of  the  diamond  eyes  affected  him  strangely.  It  seemed  to 
disenchant  the  air,  so  full  a  moment  before  of  strange  at 
tractions.  He  became  silent,  and  dreamy,  as  it  were.  The 
round-limbed  beauty  at  his  side  crushed  her  gauzy  draperies 
against  him,  as  they  trod  the  figure  of  the  dance  together, 
but  it  was  no  more  to  him  than  if  an  old  nurse  had  laid  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve.  The  young  girl  chafed  at  his  seeming 
neglect,  and  her  imperious  blood  mounted  into  her  cheeks; 
but  he  appeared  unconscious  of  it. 

"  There  is  one  of  our  young  ladies  I  must  speak  to,"  he 
said, — and  was  just  leaving  his  partner's  side. 

"  Four  hands  all  round !  "  shouted  the  first  violin, — and 
Mr.  Bernard  found  himself  seized  and  whirled  in  a  circle 
out  of  which  he  could  not  escape,  and  then  forced  to  "  cross 
over,"  and  then  to  "  dozy  do,"  as  the  maestro  had  it, — and 
when,  on  getting  back  to  his  place,  he  looked  for  Elsie  Ven 
ner,  she  was  gone. 


78 


ELSIE    VENNER. 


The  dancing  went  on  briskly.  Some  of  the  old  folks  looked 
on,  others  conversed  in  groups  and  pairs,  and  so  the  evening 
wore  along  until  a  little  after  ten  o'clock.  About  this  time 
there  was  noticed  an  increased  bustle  in  the  passages,  with 
a  considerable  opening  and  shutting  of  doors.  Presently  it 
began  to  be  whispered  about  that  they  were  going  to  have 
supper.  Many,  who  had  never  been  to  any  large  party  be 
fore,  held  their  breath  for  a  moment  at  this  announcement. 
It  was  rather  with  a  tremulous  interest  than  with  open 
hilarity  that  the  rumor  was  generally  received. 

One  point  the  Colonel  had  entirely  forgotten  to  settle.  It 
was  a  point  involving  not  merely  propriety,  but  perhaps 
principle  also,  or  at  least  the  good  report  of  the  house, — and 
he  had  never  thought  to  arrange  it.  He  took  Judge  Thorn 
ton  aside  and  whispered  the  important  question  to  him, — in 
his  distress  of  mind,  mistaking  pockets  and  taking  out  his 
bandanna  instead  of  his  white  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  fore 
head. 

"Judge,"  he  said,  "do  you  think,  that,  before  we  com 
mence  refreshing  ourselves  at  the  tables,  it  would  be  the 
proper  thing  to — crave  a — to  request  Deacon  Soper  or 
some  other  elderly  person — to  ask  a  blessing  ?  " 

The  Judge  looked  as  grave  as  if  he  were  about  giving  the 
opinion  of  the  Court  in  the  great  India-rubber  case. 

"  On  the  whole,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause,  "  I  should 
think  it  might,  perhaps,  be  dispensed  with  on  this  occasion. 
Young  folks  are  noisy,  and  it  is  awkward  to  have  talking 
and  laughing  going  on  while  a  blessing  is  being  asked.  Un 
less  a  clergyman  is  present  and  makes  a  point  of  it,  I  think 
it  will  hardly  be  expected." 

The  Colonel  was  infinitely  relieved.  "  Judge,  will  you 
take  Mrs.  Sprowle  in  to  supper  ?  "  And  the  Colonel  returned 
the  compliment  by  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Judge  Thorn 
ton. 

The  door  of  the  supper-room  was  now  open,  and  the  com 
pany,  following  the  lead  of  the  host  and  hostess,  began  to 
stream  into  it,  until  it  was  pretty  well  filled. 

There  was  an  awful  kind  of  pause.  Many  were  beginning 
to  drop  their  heads  and  shut  their  eyes,  in  anticipation  of 
the  usual  petition  before  a  meal ;  some  expected  the  music  to 
strike  up, — others,  that  an  oration  would  now  be  delivered 
by  the  Colonel. 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         79 

"  Make  yourselves  at  home,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the 
Colonel;  "good  things  were  made  to  eat,  and  you're  wel 
come  to  all  you  see  before  you." 

So  saying,  he  attacked  a  huge  turkey  which  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  table;  and  his  example  being  followed  first  by 
the  bold,  then  by  the  doubtful,  and  lastly  by  the  timid,  the 
clatter  soon  made  the  circuit  of  the  tables.  Some  were 
shocked,  however,  as  the  Colonel  had  feared  they  would  be, 
at  the  want  of  the  customary  invocation.  Widow  Leech,  a 
kind  of  relation,  who  had  to  be  invited,  and  who  came  with 
her  old,  back-country-looking  string  of  gold  beads  round  her 
neck,  seemed  to  feel  very  serious  about  it. 

"  If  she'd  ha'  known  that  folks  would  begrutch  cravin'  a 
blessin'  over  sech  a  heap  o'  provisions,  she'd  rather  ha'  staid 
t'  home.  It  was  a  bad  sign,  when  folks  wasn't  grateful  for 
the  baounties  of  Providence." 

The  elder  Miss  Spinney,  to  whom  she  made  this  remark, 
assented  to  it,  at  the  same  time  ogling  a  piece  of  frosted 
cake,  which  she  presently  appropriated  with  great  refinement 
of  manner, — taking  it  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger, 
keeping  the  others  well  spread  and  the  little  finger  in  ex 
treme  divergence,  with  a  graceful  undulation  of  the  neck, 
and  a  queer  little  sound  in  her  throat,  as  of  an  "  m  "  that 
wanted  to  get  out  and  perished  in  the  attempt. 

The  tables  now  presented  an  animated  spectacle.  Young 
fellows  of  the  more  dashing  sort,  with  high  stand-up  collars 
and  voluminous  bows  to  their  neckerchiefs,  distinguished 
themselves  by  cutting  up  fowls  and  offering  portions  thereof 
to  the  buxom  girls  these  knowing  ones  had  commonly  se 
lected. 

"  A  bit  of  the  wing,  Roxy,  or  of  the — under  limb  ?  " 

The  first  laugh  broke  out  at  this,  but  it  was  premature, 
a  sporadic  laugh,  as  Dr.  Kittredge  would  have  said,  which 
did  not  become  epidemic.  People  were  very  solemn  as  yet, 
many  of  them  being  new  to  such  splendid  scenes,  and 
crushed,  as  it  were,  in  the  presence  of  so  much  crockery  and 
so  many  silver  spoons,  and  such  a  variety  of  unusual  viands 
and  beverages.  When  the  laugh  rose  around  Roxy  and  her 
saucy  beau,  several  looked  in  that  direction  with  an  anxious 
expression,  as  if  something  had  happened, — a  lady  fainted, 
for  instance,  or  a  couple  of  lively  fellows  come  to  high 
words. 


80  ELSIE   VENNER. 

"Young  folks  will  be  young  folks,"  said  Deacon  Soper. 
"  No  harm  done.  Least  said  soonest  mended." 

"  Have  some  of  these  shell-oysters  ? "  said  the  Colonel  to 
Mrs.  Trecothick. 

A  delicate  emphasis  on  the  word  shell  implied  that  the 
Colonel  knew  what  was  what.  To  the  New  England  inland 
native,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  east  winds,  the  oyster  un 
conditioned,  the  oyster  absolute,  without  a  qualifying  adjec 
tive,  is  the  pickled  oyster.  Mrs.  Trecothick,  who  knew  very 
well  that  an  oyster  long  out  of  his  shell  (as  is  apt  to  be  the 
case  with  the  rural  bivalve)  gets  homesick  and  loses  his 
sprightliness,  replied,  with  the  pleasantest  smile  in  the  world, 
that  the  chicken  she  had  been  helped  to  was  too  delicate  to 
be  given  up  even  for  the  greater  rarity.  But  the  word 
"  shell-oysters  "  had  been  overheard ;  and  there  was  a  per 
ceptible  crowding  movement  towards  their  newly  discovered 
habitat,  a  large  soup  tureen. 

Silas  Peckham  had  meantime  fallen  upon  another  locality 
of  these  recent  mollusks.  He  said  nothing,  but  helped  him 
self  freely,  and  made  a  sign  to  Mrs.  Peckham. 

"  Lorindy,"  he  whispered,  "  shell-oysters !  " 

And  ladled  them  out  to  her  largely,  without  betraying 
any  emotion,  just  as  if  they  had  been  the  natural  inland 
or  pickled  article. 

After  the  more  solid  portion  of  the  banquet  had  been  duly 
honored,  the  cakes  and  sweet  preparations  of  various  kinds 
began  to  get  their  share  of  attention.  There  were  great 
cakes  and  little  cakes,  cakes  with  raisins  in  them,  cakes  with 
currants,  and  cakes  without  either;  there  were  brown 
cakes  and  yellow  cakes,  frosted  cakes,  glazed  cakes, 
hearts  and  rounds,  and  jumbles,  which  playful  youth  slip 
over  the  forefinger  before  spoiling  their  annular  outline. 
There  were  molds  of  blo'monje,  of  the  arrowroot  variety, 
— that  being  undistinguishable  from  such  as  is  made  with 
Russia  isinglass.  There  were  jellies,  which  had  been  shak 
ing,  all  the  time  the  young  folks  were  dancing  in  the  next 
room,  as  if  they  were  balancing  to  partners.  There  were 
built-up  fabrics,  called  Charlottes,  caky  externally,  pulpy 
within;  there  were  also  marangs,  and  likewise  custards, — 
some  of  the  indolent-fluid  sort,  others  firm,  in  which  every 
stroke  of  the  teaspoon  left  a  smooth,  conchoidal  surface  like 
the  fracture  of  chalcedony,  with  here  and  there  a  little  eye 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON,         81 

like  what  one  sees  in  cheeses.  Nor  was  that  most  wonderful 
object  of  domestic  art  called  trifle  wanting,  with  its  charm 
ing  confusion  of  cream  and  cake  and  almonds  and  jam  and 
jelly  and  wine  and  cinnamon  and  froth;  nor  yet  the  marvel 
ous  floating-island, — name  suggestive  of  all  that  is  romantic 
in  the  imaginations  of  youthful  palates. 

"  It  must  have  cost  you  a  sight  of  work,  to  say  nothin' 
of  money,  to  get  all  this  beautiful  confectionery  made  for 
the  party,"  said  Mrs.  Crane  to  Mrs.  Sprowle. 

"  Well,  it  cost  some  consid'able  labor,  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs. 
Sprowle.  "  Matilda  and  our  girls  and  I  made  'most  all  the 
cake  with  our  own  hands,  and  we  all  feel  some  tired;  but  if 
folks  get  what  suits  'em,  we  don't  begrudge  the  time  nor 
the  work.  But  I  do  feel  thirsty,"  said  the  poor  lady,  "  and 
I  think  a  glass  of  srub  would  do  my  throat  good;  it's  dread 
ful  dry.  Mr.  Peckham,  would  you  be  so  polite  as  to  pass  me 
a  glass  of  srub  ? " 

Silas  Peckham  bowed  with  great  alacrity,  and  took  from 
the  table  a  small  glass  cup,  containing  a  fluid  reddish  in 
hue  and  subacid  in  taste.  This  was  srub,  a  beverage  in  local 
repute,  of  questionable  nature,  but  suspected  of  owing  its 
tint  and  sharpness  to  some  kind  of  syrup  derived  from  the 
maroon-colored  fruit  of  the  sumac.  There  were  similar 
small  cups  on  the  table  filled  with  lemonade,  and  here  and 
there  a  decanter  of  Madeira  wine,  of  the  Marsala  kind,  which 
some  prefer  to,  and  many  more  cannot  distinguish  from, 
that  which  comes  from  the  Atlantic  island. 

"  Take  a  glass  of  wine,  Judge,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  here 
is  an  article  that  I  rather  think  '11  suit  you." 

The  judge  knew  something  of  wines,  and  could  tell  all  the 
famous  old  Madeiras  from  each  other, — "  Eclipse,"  "  Juno," 
the  almost  fabulously  scarce  and  precious  "  White-top,"  and 
the  rest.  He  struck  the  nativity  of  the  Mediterranean  Ma 
deira  before  it  had  fairly  moistened  his  lip. 

"  A  sound  wine,  Colonel,  and  I  should  think  of  a  genuine 
vintage.  Your  very  good  health." 

"  Deacon  Soper,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  here  is  some  Madary 
Judge  Thornton  recommends.  Let  me  fill  you  a  glass  of  it." 

The  Deacon's  eyes  glistened.  He  was  one  of  those  con 
sistent  Christians  who  stick  firmly  by  the  first  miracle  and 
Paul's  advice  to  Timothy. 

"  A  little  good  wine  won't  hurt  anybody,"  said  the  Deacon. 


82  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

" Plenty,— plenty,— plenty.  There!"  He  had  not  with 
drawn  his  glass,  while  the  Colonel  was  pouring,  for  fear  it 
should  spill;  and  now  it  was  running  over. 

'It  is  very  odd  how  all  a  man's  philosophy  and  the 
ology  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  few  drops  of  a  fluid  which  the 
chemists  say  consists  of  nothing  but  C4,  Oa,  H6.  The 
Deacon's  theology  fell  off  several  points  towards  latitudina- 
rianism  in  the  course  of  the  next  ten  minutes.  He  had  a 
deep  inward  sense  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be,  hu 
man  nature  included.  The  little  accidents  of  humanity, 
known  collectively  to  moralists  as  sin,  looked  very  venial  to 
his  growing  sense  of  universal  brotherhood  and  benevo 
lence. 

"  It  will  all  come  right,"  the  Deacon  said  to  himself, — "  I 
feel  a  joyful  conviction  that  everything  is  for  the  best.  I 
am  favored  with  a  blessed  peace  of  mind,  and  a  very  precious 
season  of  good  feelin'  toward  my  fellow-creturs." 

A  lusty  young  fellow  happened  to  make  a  quick  step  back 
ward  just  at  that  instant,  and  put  his  heel,  with  his  weight 
on  top  of  it,  upon  the  Deacon's  toes. 

"  Aigh !  What  the  d'  d'  didos  are  y'  abaout  with  them  great 
huffs  o'  yourn  ? "  said  the  Deacon,  with  an  expression  upon 
his  features  not  exactly  that  of  peace  and  good-will  to  men. 
The  lusty  young  fellow  apologized;  but  the  Deacon's  face 
did  not  come  right,  and  his  theology  backed  round  several 
points  in  the  direction  of  total  depravity. 

Some  of  the  dashing  young  men  in  stand-up  collars  and 
extensive  neck-ties,  encouraged  by  Mr.  Geordie,  made  quite 
free  with  the  "  Madary,"  and  even  induced  some  of  the  more 
stylish  girls — not  of  the  mansion-house  set,  but  of  the  tip 
top  two-story  families — to  taste  a  little.  Most  of  these  young 
ladies  made  faces  at  it,  and  declared  it  was  "  perfectly  hor 
rid,"  with  that  aspect  of  veracity  peculiar  to  their  age  and 
sex. 

About  this  time  a  movement  was  made  on  the  part  of 
some  of  the  mansion-house  people  to  leave  the  supper-table. 
Miss  Jane  Trecothick  had  quietly  hinted  to  her  mother  that 
she  had  had  enough  of  it.  Miss  Arabella  Thornton  had  whis 
pered  to  her  father  that  he  had  better  adjourn  this  court  to 
the  next  room.  There  were  signs  of  migration, — a  loosening 
of  people  in  their  places, — a  looking  about  for  arms  to  hitch 
on  to. 


THE  EVENT  OF  THE  SEASON.         83 

"  Stop !  "  said  the  Colonel.  "  There's  something  coming 
yet.  — • —  Ice-cream !  " 

The  great  folks  saw  that  the  play  was  not  over  yet,  and 
that  it  was  only  polite  to  stay  and  see  it  out.  The  word 
"  Ice-Cream  "  was  no  sooner  whispered  than  it  passed  from 
one  to  another  all  down  the  tables.  The  effect  was  what 
might  have  been  anticipated.  Many  of  the  guests  had  never 
seen  this  celebrated  product  of  human  skill,  and  to  all  the 
two-story  population  of  Rockland  it  was  the  last  expression 
of  the  art  of  pleasing  and  astonishing  the  human  palate. 
Its  appearance  had  been  deferred  for  several  reasons :  first, 
because  everybody  would  have  attacked  it,  if  it  had  come  in 
with  the  other  luxuries;  secondly  because  undue  apprehen 
sions  were  entertained  (owing  to  want  of  experience)  of  its 
tendency  to  deliquesce  and  resolve  itself  with  alarming  ra 
pidity  into  puddles  of  creamy  fluid;  and,  thirdly,  because 
the  surprise  would  make  a  grand  climax  to  finish  off  the 
banquet. 

There  is  something  so  audacious  in  the  conception  of  ice 
cream,  that  it  is  not  strange  that  a  population  undebauched 
by  the  luxury  of  great  cities  looks  upon  it  with  a  kind  of 
awe  and  speaks  of  it  with  a  certain  emotion.  This  defiance 
of  the  seasons,  forcing  Nature  to  do  her  work  of  congelation 
in  the  face  of  her  sultriest  noon,  might  well  inspire  a  timid 
mind  with  fear  lest  human  art  were  revolting  against  the 
Higher  Powers,  and  raise  the  same  scruples  which  resisted 
the  use  of  ether  and  chloroform  in  certain  contingencies. 
Whatever  may  be  the  cause,  it  is  well  known  that  the  an 
nouncement  at  any  private  rural  entertainment  that  there 
is  to  be  ice-cream  produces  an  immediate  and  profound  im 
pression.  It  may  be  remarked,  as  aiding  this  impression, 
that  exaggerated  ideas  are  entertained  as  to  the  dangerous 
effects  this  congealed  food  may  produce  on  persons  not  in 
the  most  robust  health. 

There  was  silence  as  the  pyramids  of  ice  were  placed  on 
the  table,  everybody  looking  on  in  admiration.  The  Colonel 
took  a  knife  and  assailed  the  one  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
When  he  tried  to  cut  off  a  slice,  it  didn't  seem  to  understand 
it,  however,  and  only  tipped,  as  if  it  wanted  to  upset.  The 
Colonel  attacked  it  on  the  other  side  and  it  tipped  just  as 
badly  the  other  way.  It  was  awkward  for  the  Colonel. 
"Permit  me,"  said  the  Judge, — and  he  took  the  knife  and 


84  ELSIE    VENKER. 

struck  a  sharp  slanting  stroke  which  sliced  off  a  piece  just 
of  the  right  size,  and  offered  it  to  Mrs.  Sprowle.  This  act 
of  dexterity  was  much  admired  by  the  company. 

The  tables  were  all  alive  again. 

"  Lorindy,  here's  a  plate  of  ice-cream,"  said  Silas  Peck- 
ham. 

"  Come,  Mahaly,"  said  a  fresh-looking  young  fellow  with 
a  saucerf  ul  in  each  hand,  "  here's  your  ice-cream ; — let's  go 
in  the  corner  and  have  a  celebration,  us  two."  And  the  old 
green  de-laine,  with  the  young  curves  under  it  to  make  it 
sit  well,  moved  off  as  pleased  apparently  as  if  it  had  been 
silk  velvet  with  thousand-dollar  laces  over  it. 

"  Oh,  now,  Miss  Green !  do  you  think  it's  safe  to  put  that 
cold  stuff  into  your  stomick  ? "  said  the  Widow  Leech  to  a 
young  married  lady,  who,  finding  the  air  rather  warm, 
thought  a  little  ice  would  cool  her  down  very  nicely.  "  It's 
jest  like  eatin'  snowballs.  You  don't  look  very  rugged;  and 
I  should  be  dreadful  afeard,  if  it  was  you " 

"  Carrie,"  said  old  Dr.  Kittredge,  who  had  overheard  this, 
— "  how  well  you're  looking  this  evening !  But  you  must  be 
tired  and  heated ; — sit  down  here,  and  let  me  give  you  a  good 
slice  of  ice-cream.  How  you  young  folks  do  grow  up,  to  be 
sure!  I  don't  feel  quite  certain  whether  it's  you  or  your 
older  sister,  but  I  know  it's  somebody  I  call  Carrie,  and  that 
I've  known  ever  since " 

A  sound  something  between  a  howl  and  an  oath  startled 
the  company  and  broke  off  the  Doctor's  sentence.  Every 
body's  eyes  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came.  A 
group  instantly  gathered  round  the  person  who  had  uttered 
it,  who  was  no  other  than  Deacon  Soper. 

"  He's  chokin'  !  he's  chokin'  !  "  was  the  first  exclamation, 
— "  slap  him  on  the  back !  " 

Several  heavy  fists  beat  such  a  tattoo  011  his  spine  that  the 
Deacon  felt  as  if  at  least  one  of  his  vertebrae  would  come 
up. 

"  He's  black  in  the  face,"  said  Widow  Leech,—"  he's  swal- 
lered  somethin'  the  wrong  way.  Where's  the  Doctor? — let 
the  Doctor  get  to  him,  can't  ye  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  move,  my  good  lady,  perhaps  I  can,"  said 
Doctor  Kittredge,  in  a  calm  tone  of  voice. — "  He's  not  chok 
ing,  my  friends,"  the  Doctor  added  immediately,  when  he 
got  sight  of  him. 


THE    EVENT   OF   THE    SEASON".  85 

"  It's  apoplexy, — I  told  you  so, — don't  you  see  how  red 
he  is  in  the  face  ? "  said  old  Mrs.  Peake,  a  famous  woman 
for  "  nussin  "  sick  folks — determined  to  be  a  little  ahead  of 
the  Doctor. 

"  It's  not  apoplexy,"  said  Dr.  Kittredge. 

"What  is  it,  Doctor?  what  is  it?  Will  he  die?  Is  he 
dead  ? — Here's  his  poor  wife,  the  Widow  Soper  that  is  to  be, 
if  she  a'n't  a'ready " 

"  Do  be  quiet,  my  good  woman,"  said  Dr.  Kittredge. — 
"  Nothing  serious,  I  think,  Mrs.  Soper. — Deacon !  " 

The  sudden  attack  of  Deacon  Soper  had  begun  with  the 
extraordinary  sound  mentioned  above.  His  features  had  im 
mediately  assumed  an  expression  of  intense  pain,  his  eyes 
staring  wildly,  and,  clapping  his  hands  to  his  face,  he  had 
rocked  his  head  backward  and  forward  in  speechless  agony. 

At  the  Doctor's  sharp  appeal  the  Deacon  lifted  his  head. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  soon  as  he  saw  his 
face.  "The  Deacon  had  a  smart  attack  of  neuralgic  pain. 
That's  all.  Very  severe",  but  not  at  all  dangerous." 

The  Doctor  kept  his  countenance,  but  his  diaphragm  was 
shaking  the  change  in  his  waistcoat-pockets  with  subter 
ranean  laughter.  He  had  looked  through  his  spectacles  and 
seen  at  once  what  had  happened.  The  Deacon,  not  being  in 
the  habit  of  taking  his  nourishment  in  the  congealed  state, 
had  treated  the  ice-cream  as  a  pudding  of  a  rare  species,  and, 
to  make  sure  of  doing  himself  justice  in  its  distribution,  had 
taken  a  large  mouthful  of  it  without  the  least  precaution. 
The  consequence  was  a  sensation  as  if  a  dentist  were  killing 
the  nerves  of  twenty-five  teeth  at  once  with  hot  irons,  or 
cold  ones,  which  would  hurt  rather  worse. 

The  Deacon  swallowed  something  with  a  spasmodic  effort, 
and  recovered  pretty  soon  and  received  the  congratulations 
of  his  friends.  There  were  different  versions  of  the  expres 
sions  he  had  used  at  the  onset  of  his  complaint, — some  of 
the  reported  exclamations  involving  a  breach  of  propriety, 
to  say  the  least, — but  it  was  agreed  that  a  man  in  an  attack 
of  neuralgy  wasn't  to  be  judged  of  by  the  rules  that  applied 
to  other  folks. 

The  company  soon  after  this  retired  from  the  supper-room. 
The  mansion-house  gentry  took  their  leave,  and  the  two-story 
people  soon  followed.  Mr.  Bernard  had  stayed  an  hour  or  two, 
and  left  soon  after  he  found  that  Elsie  Venner  and  her 


86  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

father  had  disappeared.  As  he  passed  by  the  dormitory  of 
the  Institute,  he  saw  a  light  glimmering  from  one  of  its 
upper  rooms,  where  the  lady-teacher  was  still  waking.  His 
heart  ached,  when  he  remembered,  that,  through  all  these 
hours  of  gayety,  or  what  was  meant  for  it,  the  patient  girl 
had  been  at  work  in  her  little  chamber;  and  he  looked  up 
at  the  silent  stars,  as  if  to  see  that  they  were  watching  over 
her.  The  planet  Mars  was  burning  like  a  red  coal;  the  nor 
thern  constellation  was  slanting  downward  about  its  central 
point  of  flame ;  and  while  he  looked,  a  falling  star  slid  from 
the  zenith  and  was  lost. 

He  reached  his  chamber  and  was  soon  dreaming  over  the 
Event  of  the  Season. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    MORNING    AFTER. 

Colonel  Sprowle's  family  arose  late  the  next  morning. 
The  fatigues  and  excitements  of  the  evening  and  the  prepara 
tion  for  it  were  followed  by  a  natural  collapse,  of  which 
somnolence  was  a  leading  symptom.  The  sun  shone  into 
the  window  at  a  pretty  well  opened  angle  when  the  Colonel 
first  found  himself  sufficiently  awake  to  address  his  yet 
slumbering  spouse. 

"  Sally !  "  said  the  Colonel,  in  a  voice  that  was  a  little 
husky, — for  he  had  finished  off  the  evening  with  an  extra 
glass  or  two  of  "  Madary,"  and  had  ja  somewhat  rusty  and 
headachy  sense  of  renewed  existence,  on  greeting  the  rather 
advanced  dawn, — "  Sally !  " 

"  Take  care  o'  them  custard  cups !     There  they  go !  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Sprowle  was  fighting  the  party  over  in  her 
dream;  and  as  the  visionary  custard-cups  crashed  down 
through  one  lobe  of  her  brain  into  another,  she  gave  a  start 
as  if  an  inch  of  lightning  from  a  quart  Ley  den  jar  had 
been  jumped  into  one  of  her  knuckles,  with  its  sudden  and 
lively  "poonk!" 

"  Sally !  "  said  the  Colonel,—"  wake  up,  wake  up !  What 
V  y'  dreamin'  abaout  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sprowle  raised  herself,  by  a  sort  of  spasm,  sur  son 
scant,  as  they  say  in  France, — up  on  end,  as  we  have  it  in 
New  England.  She  looked  first  to  the  left,  then  to  the  right, 
then  straight  before  her,  apparently  without  seeing  any 
thing,  and  at  last  slowly  settled  down,  with  her  two  eyes, 
blank  of  any  particular  meaning,  directed  upon  the  colonel. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Ten  o'clock.  What  'y'  been  dreamin'  abaout?  Y'  give  a 
jump  like  a  hoppergrass.  Wake  up,  wake  up!  Th'  party's 
over,  and  y'  been  asleep  all  the  mornin'.  The  party's  over, 
I  tell  ye!  Wake  up!" 

"  Over !  "  said  Mrs.  Sprowle,  who  began  to  define  her  posi- 


88  ELSIE    VEXNEft. 

tion  at  last, — "  over !  I  should  think  'twas  time  'twas  over ! 
It  lasted  a  hundud  year.  I've  been  workin'  for  that  party 
longer  'n  ^Methuselah's  lifetime,  sence  I  been  asleep.  The  pies 
wouldn'  bake,  and  the  blo'monge  wouldn'  set,  and  the  ice 
cream  wouldn't  freeze,  and  all  the  folks  kep'  comin'  'n'  comin' 
'n'  comin' — everybody  I  ever  knew  in  all  my  life — some  of  'em 
's  been  dead  this  twenty  year  'n'  more, — 'n'  nothiii'  for  'em 
to  eat  nor  drink.  The  fire  wouldn'  burn  to  cook  anything, 
all  we  could  do.  We  blowed  with  the  belluses,  'n'  we  stuffed 
in  paper  'n'  pitch-pine  kindlin's,  but  nothin'  could  make  that 
fire  burn;  'n'  all  the  time  the  folks  kep'  comin,  as  if  they'd 
never  stop, — nothin'  for  'em  but  empty  dishes,  'n'  all  the 
borrowed  chaney  slippin'  round  on  the  waiters  'n'  chippin' 
'n'  crackin'. — I  wouldn'  go  through  what  I  been  through 
t'-night  for  all  the  money  'n  the  Bank, — I  do  believe  it's 
harder  t'  have  a  party  than  t'— 

Mrs.  Sprowle  stated  the  case  strongly. 

The  Colonel  said  he  didn't  know  how  that  might  be.  She 
was  a  better  judge  than  he  was.  It  was  bother  enough,  any 
how,  and  he  was  glad  that  it  was  over.  After  this  the 
worthy  pair  commenced  preparations  for  rejoining  the  wak 
ing  world,  and  in  due  time  proceeded  downstairs. 

Everybody  was  late  that  morning,  and  nothing  had  got 
put  to  rights.  The  house  looked  as  if  a  small  army  had 
been  quartered  in  it  overnight.  The  tables  were  of  course 
in  huge  disorder,  after  the  protracted  assault  they  had  un 
dergone.  There  had  been  a  great  battle  evidently,  and  it 
had  gone  against  the  provisions.  Some  points  had  been 
stormed,  and  all  their  defenses  annihilated,  but  here  and 
there  were  centers  of  resistance  which  had  held  out  against 
all  attacks, — large  rounds  of  beef,  and  solid  loads  of  cake, 
against  which  the  inexperienced  had  wasted  their  energies 
in  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  or  uninformed  maturity,  while 
the  longer-headed  guests  were  making  discoveries  of  "  shell- 
oysters  "  and  "  patridges  "  and  similar  delicacies. 

The  breakfast  was  naturally  of  a  somewhat  fragmentary 
character.  A  chicken  that  had  lost  his  legs  in  the  service 
of  the  preceding  campaign  was  once  more  put  on  duty.  A 
great  ham,  stuck  with  cloves,  as  St.  Sebastian  was  with 
arrows,  was  again  offered  for  martyrdom.  It  would  have 
been  a  pleasant  sight  for  a  medical  man  of  a  speculative 
turn  to  have  seen  the  prospect  before  the  Colonel's  family 


THE    MORNING    AFTEK.  89 

•f  the  next  week's  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  suppers.  The 
trail  that  one  of  these  great  rural  parties  leaves  after  it 
is  one  of  its  most  formidable  considerations.  Every  door 
handle  in  the  house  is  suggestive  of  sweetmeats  for  the  next 
week,  at  least.  The  most  unnatural  articles  of  diet  displace 
the  frugal  but  nutritious  food  of  unconvulsed  periods  of  ex 
istence.  If  there  is  a  walking  infant  about  the  house  it 
will  certainly  have  a  more  less  fatal  fit  from  overmuch  of 
some  indigestible  delicacy.  Before  the  week  is  out,  every 
body  will  be  tired  to  death  of  sugary  forms  of  nourishment, 
and  long  to  see  the  last  of  the  remnants  of  the  festival. 

The  family  had  not  yet  arrived  at  this  condition.  On  the 
contrary,  the  first  inspection  of  the  tables  suggested  the 
prospect  of  days  of  unstinted  luxury;  and  the  younger  por 
tion  of  the  household,  especially,  were  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement  as  the  account  of  stock  was  taken  with  reference 
to  future  internal  investments.  Some  curious  facts  came 
to  light  during  these  researches. 

"  Where's  all  the  oranges  gone  to  ? "  said  Mrs.  Sprowle. 
"  I  expected  there'd  be  ever  so  many  of  'em  left.  I  didn't 
see  many  of  the  folks  eatin'  oranges.  Where's  the  skins  of 
'em?  There  ought  to  be  six  dozen  orange-skins  round 
on  the  plates,  and  there  a'n't  one  dozen.  And  all  the  small 
cakes,  too,  and  all  the  sugar  things  that  was  stuck  on  the 
big  cakes.  Has  anybody  counted  the  spoons?  Some  of  'em 
got  swallered,  perhaps.  I  hope  they  was  plated  ones,  if  they 
did!" 

The  failure  of  the  morning's  orange  crop,  and  the  deficit 
in  other  expected  residual  delicacies  were  not  very  difficult  to 
account  for.  In  many  of  the  two-story  Rocklaiid  families, 
and  in  those  favored  households  of  the  neighboring  villages 
whose  members  had  been  invited  to  the  great  party,  there 
was  a  very  general  excitement  among  the  younger  people  on 
the  morning  after  the  great  event.  "  Did  y'  bring  home  some- 
thin' from  the  party?  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  Is  it  f  rut- 
cake?  Is  it  nuts  and  oranges  and  apples?  Give  me  some! 
Give  me  some !  "  Such  a  concert  of  treble  voices  uttering 
accents  like  these  had  not  been  heard  since  the  great  Tem 
perance  Festival,  with  the  celebrated  "eolation"  in  the 
open  air,  under  the  trees  of  the  Parnassian  Grove, — as  the 
place  was  christened  by  the  young  ladies  of  the  Institute. 
The  cry  of  the  children  was  not  in  vain.  From  the  pockets 


90  ELSI'E    VENNER, 

of  demure  fathers,  from  the  bags  of  sharp-eyed  spinsters, 
from  the  folded  handkerchiefs  of  light-fingered  sisters,  from 
the  tall  hats  of  sly-winking  brothers,  there  was  a  resurrec 
tion  of  the  missing  oranges  and  cakes  and  sugar  things  in 
many  a  rejoicing  family  circle,  enough  to  astonish  the  most 
hardened  "  caterer  "  that  ever  contracted  to  feed  a  thousand 
people  under  canvas. 

The  tender  recollection  of  those  dear  little  ones  whom  ex 
treme  youth  or  other  pressing  considerations  detain  from 
scenes  of  festivity — a  trait  of  affection  by  no  means  uncom 
mon  among  our  thoughtful  people — dignifies  those  social 
meetings  where  it  is  manifested,  and  sheds  a  ray  of  sun 
shine  on  our  common  nature.  It  is  "  an  oasis  in  the  desert," 
— to  use  the  striking  expression  of  the  last  year's  "  Valedic 
torian  "  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  In  the  midst  of  so 
much  that  is  purely  selfish,  it  is  delightful  to  meet  such  dis 
interested  care  for  others.  When  a  large  family  of  children 
are  expecting  a  parent's  return  from  an  entertainment,  it 
will  often  require  great  exertions  on  his  part  to  .freight  him 
self  so  as  to  meet  their  reasonable  expectations.  A  few 
rules  are  worth  remembering  by  all  who  attend  anniversary 
dinners  in  Faneuil  Hall,  or  elsewhere.  Thus:  Lobsters' 
claws  are  always  acceptable  to  children  of  all  ages.  Oranges 
and  apples  are  to  be  taken  one  at  time,  until  the  coat  pock 
ets  begin  to  become  inconveniently  heavy.  Cakes  are  in 
jured  by  sitting  upon  them;  it  is,  therefore,  well  to  carry  a 
stout  tin  box  of  a  size  to  hold  as  many  pieces  as  there  are 
children  in  the  domestic  circle.  A  very  pleasant  amuse 
ment,  at  the  close  of  one  of  these  banquets,  is  grabbing  for 
the  flowers  with  which  the  table  is  embellished.  These  will 
please  the  ladies  at  home  very  greatly,  and,  if  the  children 
are  at  the  same  time  abundantly  supplied  with  fruit,  nuts, 
cakes,  and  any  little  ornamental  articles  of  confectionery 
which  are  of  a  nature  to  be  unostentatiously  removed,  the 
kind-hearted  parent  will  make  a  whole  household  happy  with 
out  any  additional  expense  beyond  the  outlay  for  his 
ticket. 

There  were  fragmentary  delicacies  enough  left,  of  one 
kind  and  another,  at  any  rate  to  make  all  the  Colonel's 
family  uncomfortable  for  the  next  week.  It  bid  fair  to 
take  as  long  to  get  rid  of  the  remains  of  the  great  party  as 
it  had  taken  to  make  ready  for  it. 


THE    MORNING    AFTER.  91 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Bernard  had  been  dreaming,  as 
young  men  dream,  of  gliding  shapes  with  bright  eyes  and 
burning  cheeks,  strangely  blended  with  red  planets  and  hiss 
ing  meteors,  and,  shining  over  all,  the  white,  unwandering 
star  of  the  North,  girt  with  its  tethered  constellations. 

After  breakfast,  he  walked  into  the  parlor,  where  he  found 
Miss  Darley.  She  was  alone,  and,  holding  a  schoolbook  in 
her  hand,  was  at  work  with  one  of  the  morning  lessons.  Sfhe 
hardly  noticed  him  as  he  entered,  being  very  busy  with  , 
her  book — and  he  paused  a  moment  before  speaking,  and/ 
looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  reverence.  It  would  not  have 
been  strictly  true  to  call  her  beautiful.  For  years, — since  her 
earliest  womanhood, — those  slender  hands  had  taken  the  1 
bread  which  repaid  the  toil  of  heart  and  brain  from  the 
coarse  palms  which  offered  it  in  the  world's  rude  market.  It 
was  not  for  herself  alone  that  she  had  bartered  away  the 
life  of  her  youth,  that  she  had  breathed  the  hot  air  of  school 
rooms,  that  she  had  forced  her  intelligence  to  posture  before 
her  will,  as  the  exigencies  of  her  place  required, — waking  to 
her  mental  labor, — sleeping,  to  dream  of  problems, — rolling  up 
the  stone  of  education  for  an  endless  twelvemonth's  term, 
to  find  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  again  when  another  year 
called  her  to  its  renewed  duties, — schooling  her  temper  in 
unending  inward  and  outward  conflicts,  until  neither  dull 
ness  nor  obstinacy  nor  ingratitude  nor  insolence  could  reach 
her  serene  self-possession.  Not  for  herself  alone.  Poorly  \ 
as  her  prodigal  labors  were  repaid  in  proportion  to  the  waste 
of  life  they  cost,  her  value  was  too  well  established  to  leave 
her  without  what,  under  other  circumstances,  would  have 
been  a  more  than  sufficient  compensation.  But  there  were 
others  who  looked  to  her  in  their  need.  And  so  the  modest 
fountain  which  might  have  been  filled  to  its  brim  was  con 
tinually  drained  through  silent  flowing,  hidden  sluices. 

Out  of  such  a  life,  inherited  from  a  race  which  had  lived 
in  conditions  not  unlike  her  own,  beauty,  in  the  common 
sense  of  the  term,  could  'hardly  find  leisure  to  develop  and  \ 
shape  itself.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  symmetry 
and  elegance  of  features  and  figure,  like  perfectly-formed 
crystals  in  the  mineral  world,  are  reached  only  by  insuring 
a  certain  necessary  repose  to  individuals  and  to  genera 
tions. 

Human  beauty  is  an  agricultural  product  in  the  country, 


92  ELSIE   VENNEB. 

growing  up  in  men  and  women  as  in  corn  and  cattle,  where 
the  soil  is  good.  It  is  a  luxury  almost  monopolized  by  the 
rich  in  cities,  bred  under  glass,  like  their  forced  pineapples 
and  peaches.  Both  in  city  'and  country,  the  evolution  of 
physical  harmonies  which  make  music  to  our  eyes  requires  a 
combination  of  favorable  circumstances,  of  which  alterna 
tions  of  unburdened  tranquillity  with  intervals  of  varied  ex 
citement  of  mind  and  body  are  among  the  most  important. 
Where  sufficient  excitement  is  wanting,  as  often  happens 
in  the  country,  the  features,  however,  rich  in  red  and  white, 
get  heavy,  and  the  movements  sluggish;  where  excitement 
is  furnished  in  excess,  as  is  frequently  the  case  in  cities, 
the  contours  and  colors  are  impoverished,  and  the  nerves 
begin  to  make  their  existence  known  to  the  consciousness, 
as  the  face  very  soon  informs  us. 

Helen  Darley  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things,  have  pos 
sessed  the  kind  of  beauty  which  pleases  the  common  taste. 
Her  eye  was  calm,  sad-looking,  her  features  very  still,  except 
when  her  pleasant  smile  changed  them  for  a  moment;  all 
her  outlines  were  delicate,  her  voice  was  very  gentle,  but 
somewhat  subdued  by  years  of  thoughtful  labor,  and  on  her 
smooth  forehead  one  little  hinted  line  whispered  already  that 
Care  was  beginning  to  mark  the  trace  which  time  sooner  or 
later  would  make  a  furrow.  She  could  not  be  a  beauty;  if  she 
had  been,  it  would  have  been  much  harder  for  many  persons 
to  be  interested  in  her.  For,  although  in  the  abstract  we 
all  love  beauty,  and  although,  if  we  were  sent  naked  souls 
into  some  ultramundane  warehouse  of  soulless  bodies  and 
told  to  select  one  to  "our  liking,  we  should  each  choose  a 
handsome  one,  and  never  think  of  the  consequences,— it  is 
quite  certain  that  beauty  carries  an  atmosphere  of  repulsion 
as  well  as  attraction  with  it,  alike  in  both  sexes.  We  may 
be  well  assured  that  there  are  many  persons  who  no  more 
think  of  specializing  their  love  of  the  other  sex  upon  one 
endowed  with  signal  beauty,  than  we  think  of  wanting  great 
diamonds  or  thousand-dollar  horses.  No  man  or  woman 
can  appropriate  beauty  without  paying  for  it, — in  endow 
ments,  in  fortune,  in  position,  in  self-surrender,  or  other 
valuable  stock;  and  fhere  are  a  great  many  who  are  too 
poor,  too  ordinary,  too  humble,  too  busy,  too  proud,  to  pay 
any  of  these  prices  for  it.  So  the  unbeautiful  get  many  more 
lovers  than  the  beauties;  only,  as  there  are  more  of  them, 


THE    MORNING    AFTER.  93 

their  lovers  are  spread  thinner  and  do  not  make  so  much 
show. 

The  young  master  stood  looking  at  Helen  Darley  with  a 
kind  of  tender  admiration.  She  was  such  a  picture  of  the 
martyr  by  the  slow  social  combustive  process,  that  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  ""that  he  could  see  a  pale  lambent  nimbus 
around  her  head. 

"I  did  not  see  you  at  the  great  party  last  evening,"  he 
said  presently. 

•She  looked  up  and  answered,  "  No.  I  have  not  much  taste 
for  such  large  companies.  Besides,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  my 
time  belonged  to  me  after  it  has  been  paid  for.  There  is 
always  something  to  do,  some  lesson  or  exercise, — and  it  so 
happened  I  was  very  busy  last  night  with  the  new  problems 
in  geometry.  I  hope  you  had  a  good  time." 

"  Very.  Two  or  three  of  our  girls  were  there.  Rosa  Mil- 
burn.  What  a  beauty  she  is!  I  wonder  what  she  feeds  on! 
Wine  and  musk,  and  chloroform  and  coals  of  fire,  I  believe; 
I  didn't  think  there  was  such  color  and  flavor  in  a  woman 
outside  the  tropics." 

Miss  Darley  smiled  rather  faintly;  the  imagery  was  not 
just  to  her  taste :  femineity  often  finds  it  very  hard  to  accept 
the  fact  of  muliebrity. 

«  Was -" 

She  stopped  short;  but  her  question  had  asked  itself. 

"  Elsie  there  ?  She  was  for  an  hour  or  so.  She  looked 
frightfully  handsome.  I  meant  to  have  spoken  to  her,  but 
she  slipped  away  before  I  knew  it." 

"  I  thought  she  meant  to  go  to  the  party,"  said  Miss  Dar 
ley.  "  Did  she  look  at  you  ?  " 

"She  did.    Why?" 

"  And  you  did  not  speak  to  her  ? " 

"  No.  I  should  have  spoken  to  her,  but  she  was  gone  when 
I  looked  for  her.  A  strange  creature !  Isn't  there  an  odd 
sort  of  fascination  about  her?  You  have  not  explained  all 
the  mystery  about  the  girl.  What  does  she  come  to  this 
school  for?  She  seems  to  do  pretty  much  as  she  likes  about 
studying." 

Miss   Darley   answered   in   very   low   tones.      "  It   was    a 
fancy  of  hers  to  come,  and  they  let  her  have  her  way.     I 
don't  know  what  there  is  about  her,  except  that  she  seems  to  f 
take  my  life  out  of  me  when  she  looks  at  me.    I  don't  like 


94  ELSIE    VENNEE. 

to  ask  other  people  about  our  girls.  She  says  very  little  to 
anybody,  and  studies,  or  makes  believe  to  study,  almost  what 
she  likes.  I  don't  know  what  she  is,"  (Miss  Darley  laid  her 
hand,  trembling,  on  the  young  master's  sleeve),  "  but  I  can 
tell  when  she  is  in  the  room  without  seeing  or  hearing  her. 
Oh,  Mr.  Langdon,  I  am  weak  and  nervous,  and  no  doubt 
foolish, — but — if  there  were  women  now,  as  in  the  days  of 
our  Saviour,  possessed  of  devils,  I  should  think  there  was 
something  not  human  looking  out  of  Elsie  Venner's  eyes !  " 

The  poor  girl's  breast  rose  and  fell  tumultuously  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  voice  labored,  as  if  some  obstruction  were  ris 
ing  in  her  throat. 

A  scene  might  possibly  have  come  of  it,  but  the  door  was 
opened.  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  Miss  Darley  got  away  as  soon 
as  she  well  could. 

"  Why  did  not  Miss  Darley  go  to  the  party  last  evening  ? " 
said  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,"  answered  Mr.  Silas  Peckham,  "  Miss 
Darley,  she's  pooty  much  took  up  with  the  school.  She's  an 
industris  young  woman, — yis,  she  is  industris, — but  perhaps 
she  a'n't  quite  so  spry  a  worker  as  some.  Maybe,  considerin' 
she's  paid  for  her  time,  she  isn't  fur  out  o'  the  way  in  occoo- 
pyin'  herself  evenin's, — that  is,  if  so  be  she  a'n't  smart 
enough  to  finish  up  all  her  work  in  the  daytime.  Edoocation 
is  the  great  business  of  the  Institoot.  Amoosements  are  ob- 
jec's  of  a  secondary  natur',  accordin'  to  my  v'oo."  (The  un- 
spellable  pronounciation  of  this  word  is  the  touchstone  of 
New  England  Brahminism.) 

Mr.  Bernard  drew  a  deep  breath,  his  thin  nostrils  dilating, 
as  if  the  air  did  not  rush  in  fast  enough  to  cool  his  blood, 
while  Silas  Peckham  was  speaking.  The  head  of  the  Apol- 
linean  Institute  delivered  himself  of  these  judicious  senti 
ments  in  that  peculiar  acid,  penetrating  tone,  thickened 
with  a  nasal  twang,  which  not  rarely  becomes  hereditary 
after  three  or  four  generations  raised  upon  east  winds,  salt 
fish,  and  large,  white-bellied,  pickled  cucumbers.  He  spoke 
deliberately,  as  if  weighing  his  words  well,  so  that,  during 
his  few  remarks,  Mr.  Bernard  had  time  for  a  mental  ac 
companiment  with  variations,  accented  by  certain  bodily 
changes,  which  escaped  Mr.  Peckham's  observation.  First 
there  was  a  feeling  of  disgust  and  shame  at  hearing  Helen 
Darley  spoken  of  like  a  dumb  working  animal.  That  sent 


THE    MORNING    AFTER.  95 

the  blood  up  into  his  cheeks.  Then  the  slur  upon  her  prob 
able  want  of  force — her  incapability  who  made  the  character 
of  the  school  and  left  this  man  to  pocket  its  profits — sent 
a  thrill  of  the  old  Wentworth  fire  through  him,  so  that  his 
muscles  hardened,  his  hands  closed,  and  he  took  the  measure 
of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham,  to  see  if  his  head  would  strike  the 
wall  in  case  he  went  over  backwards  all  of  a  sudden.  This 
would  not  do,  of  course,  and  so  the  thrill  passed  off  and  the 
muscles  softened  again.  Then  came  that  state  of  tenderness 
in  the  heart,  overlying  wrath  in  the  stomach,  in  which  the 
eyes  grow  moist  like  a  woman's,  and  there  is  also  a  great 
boiling  up  of  objectionable  terms  out  of  the  deep-water 
vocabulary,  so  that  Prudence  and  Propriety,  and  all  the 
other  pious  "  Ps  "  have  to  jump  upon  the  lid  of  speech  to 
keep  them  from  boiling  over  into  fierce  articulation.  All 
this  was  internal,  chiefly,  and  of  course  not  recognized  by 
Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  The  idea  that  any  full-grown,  sensible 
man  should  have  any  other  notion  than  that  of  getting  the 
most  work  for  the  least  money  out  of  his  assistants,  had 
never  suggested  itself  to  him. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  gone  through  this  paroxysm,  and  cooled 
down,  in  the  period  while  Mr.  Peckham  was  uttering  these 
words  in  his  thin,  shallow  whine,  twanging  up  into  the  frontal 
sinuses.  What  was  the  use  of  losing  his  temper  and  throw 
ing  away  his  place  and  so,  among  the  consequences  which 
would  necessarily  follow,  leaving  the  poor  lady-teacher  with 
out  a  friend  to  stand  by  her,  ready  to  lay  his  hand  on  the 
grand  inquisitor  before  the  windlass  of  his  rack  had  taken 
one  turn  too  many. 

"  No  doubt,  Mr.  Peckham,"  he  said  in  a  grave,  calm  voice, 
"  there  is  a  great  deal  of  work  to  be  done  in  the  school ;  but 
perhaps  we  can  distribute  the  duties  a  little  more  evenly 
after  a  time.  I  shall  look  over  the  girls'  themes  myself,  after 
this  week.  Perhaps  there  will  be  some  other  parts  of  her 
labor  that  I  can  take  on  myself.  We  can  arrange  a  new 
programme  of  studies  and  recitations." 

"We  can  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  "But  I 
don't  propose  mater'lly  alterin'  Miss  Barley's  dooties.  I 
don't  think  she  works  to  hurt  herself.  Some  of  the  Trustees 
have  proposed  interdoosin'  new  branches  of  study,  and  I 
expect  you  will  be  pooty  much  occoopied  with  the  dooties 
that  belong  to  your  place.  On  the  Sahbath  you  will  be  able 


96  ELSIE   VENKER. 

to  attend  divine  service  three  times,  which  is  expected  of  our 
teachers.  I  shall  continoo  myself  to  give  Sahbath  Scriptur'- 
readin's  to  the  young  ladies.  That  is  a  solemn  dooty  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  to  commit  to  other  people.  My  teachers 
enjoy  the  Lord's  day  as  a  day  of  rest.  In  it  they  do  no 
manner  of  work, — except  in  cases  of  necessity  or  mercy, 
such  as  fillin'  out  diplomas,  or  when  we  git  crowded  jest  at 
the  end  of  a  term,  or  when  there  is  an  extry  number  of 
p'oopils,  or  other  Providential  call  to  dispense  with  the 
ordinance." 

Mr.  Bernard  had  a  fine  glow  in  his  cheeks  by  this  time, — 
doubtless  kindled  by  the  thought  of  the  kind  consideration 
Mr.  Peckham  showed  for  his  subordinates  in  allowing  them 
the  between-meeting  time  on  Sundays,  except  for  some  spe 
cial  reason.  But  the  morning  was  wearing  away;  so  he 
went  to  the  schoolroom,  taking  leave  very  properly  of  his 
respected  principal,  who  soon  took  his  hat  and  departed. 

Mr.  Peckham  visited  certain  "  stores  "  or  shops,  where  he 
made  inquiries  after  various  articles  in  the  provision  line, 
and  effected  a  purchase  or  two.  Two  or  three  barrels  of 
potatoes,  which  had  sprouted  in  a  promising  way,  he  secured 
at  a  bargain.  A  side  of  feminine  beef  was  also  obtained 
at  a  low  figure.  He  was  entirely  satisfied  with  a  couple  of 
barrels  of  flour,  which,  being  invoiced  "slightly  damaged," 
were  to  be  had  at  a  reasonable  price. 

After  this,  Silas  Peckham  felt  in  good  spirits.  He  had 
done  a  pretty  stroke  of  business.  It  came  into  his  head 
whether  he  might  not  follow  it  up  with  a  still  more  brilliant 
speculation.  So  he  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Colo 
nel  Sprowle's. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  battlefield  of  last  even 
ing  was  as  we  left  it.  Mr.  Peckham's  visit  was  unexpected, 
perhaps  not  very  well  timed,  but  the  Colonel  received  him 
civilly. 

"Beautifully  lighted — these  rooms  last  night!"  said  Mr. 
Peckham.  "  Winter-strained  ?  " 

The  Colonel  nodded. 

"  How  much  do  you  pay  for  your  winter-strained  ? " 

The  Colonel  told  him  the  price. 

"  Very  hahnaome  supper, — very  hahnsome.  Nothin'  ever 
seen  like  it  in  Rockland.  Must  have  been  a  great  heap  of 
things  left  over." 


THE   MOKNING    AFTER.  97 

The  compliment  was  not  ungrateful,  and  the  Colonel 
acknowledged  it  by  smiling  and  saying,  "  I  should  think  the' 
was  a  trifle !  Come  and  look." 

When  Silas  Peckham  saw  how  many  delicacies  had  sur 
vived  the  evening's  conflict,  his  commercial  spirit  rose  at 
once  to  the  point  of  a  proposal. 

"  Colonel  Sprowle,"  said  he,  "  there's  meat  and  cakes  and 
pies  and  pickles  enough  on  that  table  to  spread  a  hahnsome 
eolation.  If  you'd  like  to  trade  reasonable,  I  think  perhaps 
I  should  be  willin'  to  take  'em  off  your  hands.  There's  been 
a  talk  about  our  havin'  a  celebration  in  the  Parnassian  Grove, 
and  I  think  I  could  work  in  what  your  folks  don't  want  and 
make  myself  whole  by  chargin'  a  small  sum  for  tickets. 
Broken  meats,  of  course,  a'n't  of  the  same  valoo  as  fresh 
provisions;  so  I  think  you  might  be  willin'  to  trade  reason 
able." 

Mr.  Peckham  paused  and  rested  on  his  proposal.  It  would 
not,  perhaps,  have  been  very  extraordinary,  if  Colonel 
Sprowle  had  entertained  the  proposition.  There  is  no  telling 
beforehand  how  such  things  will  strike  people.  It  didn't 
happen  to  strike  the  Colonel  favorably.  He  had  a  little  red- 
blooded  manhood  in  him. 

"  Sell  you  them  things  to  make  a  eolation  out  of  ? "  the 
Colonel  replied.  "  Walk  up  to  the  table,  Mr.  Peckham, 
and  help  yourself!  Fill  your  pockets,  Mr.  Peckham!  Fetch 
a  basket,  and  our  hired  folks  shall  fill  it  full  for  ye !  Send  a 
cart,  if  y'  like,  'n'  carry  off  them  leavin's  to  make  a  celebra 
tion  for  your  pupils  with!  Only  let  me  tell  ye  this: — as 
sure's  my  name's  Hezekiah  Spraowle,  you'll  be  known 
through  the  taown,  'n'  through  the  caounty  from  that  day 
f orrard,  as  the  Principal  of  the  Broken- Victuals  Institoot !  " 

Even  provincial  human  nature  sometimes  has  a  touch  of 
sublimity  about  it.  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  had  gone  a  little 
deeper  than  'he  meant,  and  come  upon  the  "hard-pan,"  as 
the  well-diggers  call  it,  of  the  Colonel's  character,  before  he 
thought  of  it.  A  militia  colonel,  standing  on  his  senti 
ments,  is  not  to  be  despised.  That  was  shown  pretty  well  in 
New  England  two  or  three  generations  ago.  There  were  a 
good  many  plain  officers  that  talked  about  their  "  rigiment " 
and  their  "  caounty  "  who  knew  very  well  how  to  say  "  Make 
ready!"  "Take  aim!"  "Fire!"— in  the  face  of  a  line  of 
grenadiers  with  bullets  in  their  guns  and  bayonets  on  them. 


98  ELSIE    VEKNEE. 

And  though  a  rustic  uniform  is  not  always  unexceptionable 
in  its  cut  and  trimmings,  yet  there  was  many  an  ill-made 
coat  in  those  old  times  that  was  good  enough  to  be  shown  to 
the  enemy's  front  rank,  too  often  to  be  left  on  the  field  with 
a  round  hole  in  its  left  lapel  that  matched  another  going- 
right  through  the  brave  heart  of  the  plain  country  captain  or 
major  or  colonel  who  was  buried  in  it  under  the  crimson 
turf. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  said  little  or  nothing.  His  sensibilities 
were  not  acute,  but  he  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  mis 
calculation.  He  hoped  that  there  was  no  offense, — thought 
it  might  have  been  mutooally  agreeable,  conclooded  he  would 
give  up  the  idee  of  a  eolation,  and  backed  himself  out  as  if 
unwilling  to  expose  the  less  guarded  aspect  of  his  person  to 
the  risk  of  accelerating  impulses. 

The  Colonel  shut  the  door, — cast  his  eye  on  the  toe  of  his 
right  boot,  as  if  it  had  had  strong  temptation, — looked  at 
his  watch,  then  round  the  room,  and,  going  to  a  cupboard, 
swallowed  a  glass  of  deep-red  brandy  and  water  to  compose 
his  feelings. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    DOCTOR    ORDERS    THE    BEST    SULKY. 

(.With  a  Digression  on  "Hired  Help/') 

"  Abel !  Slip  Cassia  into  the  new  sulky,  and  fetch  her 
round." 

Abel  was  Dr.  Kittredge's  hired  man.  He  was  born  in  New 
Hampshire,  a  queer  sort  of  State,  with  fat  streaks  of  soil 
and  population  where  they  breed  giants  in  mind  and  body, 
and  lean  streaks  which  export  imperfectly-nourished  young 
men  with  promising  but  neglected  appetites,  who  may  be 
found  in  great  numbers  in  all  the  large  towns,  or  could  be 
until  of  late  years,  when  they  have  been  half  driven  out  of 
their  favorite  basement-stories  by  foreigners,  and  half- 
coaxed  away  from  them  by  California.  New  Hampshire  is 
in  more  than  one  sense  the  Switzerland  of  New  England. 
The  "  Granite  State "  being  naturally  enough  deficient  in 
pudding-stone,  its  children  are  apt  to  wander  southward  in 
search  of  that  deposit, — in  the  unpetrified  condition. 

Abel  Stebbins  was  a  good  specimen  of  that  extraordinary 
hybrid  or  mule  between  democracy  and  chrysocracy,  a  na 
tive-born  New  England  serving  man.  The  Old  World  has 
nothing  at  all  like  him.  He  is  at  once  an  emperor  and  a  sub 
ordinate.  In  one  hand  he  holds  one  five-millionth  part  (be 
the  same  more  or  less)  of  the  power  that  sways  the  destinies 
of  the  Great  Republic.  His  other  hand  is  in  your  boot, 
which  he  is  about  to  polish.  It  is  impossible  to  turn  a  fel 
low-citizen  whose  vote  may  make  his  master — say,  rather, 
employer — Governor  or  President,  or  who  may  be  one  or  both 
himself,  into  a  flunkey.  That  article  must  be  imported 
ready-made  from  other  centers  of  civilization.  When  a  New 
Englander  has  lost  his  self-respect  as  a  citizen  and  as  a  man, 
he  is  demoralized,  and  cannot  be  trusted  with  the  money  to 
pay  for  a  dinner. 

It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  this  fractional  em 
peror,  this  continent-shaper,  finds  his  position  awkward  when 


100  ELSIE    VENNER. 

he  goes  into  service,  and  that  his  employer  is  apt  to  find  it 
still  more  embarrassing.  It  is  always  under  protest  that  the 
hired  man  does  his  duty.  Every  act  of  service  is  subject  to 
the  drawback,  "  I  am  as  good  as  you  are."  This  is  so  com 
mon,  at  least,  as  almost  to  be  the  rule,  and  partly  accounts 
for  the  rapid  disappearance  of  the  indigenous  "  domestic " 
from  the  basements  above  mentioned.  Paleontologists  will 
by-and-by  be  examining  the  floors  of  our  kitchens  for  tracks 
of  the  extinct  native  species  of  serving  man.  The  female 
of  the  same  race  is  fast  dying  out ;  indeed,  the  time  is  not  far 
distant  when  all  the  varieties  of  young  woman  will  have 
vanished  from  ISTew  England,  as  the  dodo  has  perished  in  the 
Mauritius.  The  young  lady  is  all  that  we  shall  have  left, 
and  the  mop  and  duster  of  the  last  Almira  or  Loizy  will  be 
stared  at  by  generations  of  Bridgets  and  Noras  as  that  fa 
mous  head  and  foot  of  the  lost  bird  are  stared  at  in  the 
Ashmolean  Museum. 

Abel  Stebbins,  the  Doctor's  man,  took  the  true  American 
view  of  his  difficult  position.  He  sold  his  time  to  the  Doc 
tor,  and,  having  sold  it,  he  took  care  to  fulfill  his  half  of  the 
bargain.  The  Doctor,  on  his  part,  treated  him,  not  like  a 
gentleman,  because  one  does  not  order  a  gentleman  to  bring 
up  his  horse  or  run  his  errands,  but  he  treated  him  like  a 
man.  Every  order  was  given  in  courteous  terms.  His  rea 
sonable  privileges  were  respected  as  much  as  if  they  had 
been  guaranteed  under  hand  and  seal.  The  Doctor  lent  him 
books  from  his  own  library,  and  gave  him  all  friendly  coun 
sel,  as  if  he  were  a  son  or  a  younger  brother. 

Abel  had  Revolutionary  blood  in  his  veins,  and  though  he 
saw  fit  to  "  hire  out,"  he  could  never  stand  the  word  "  serv 
ant,"  or  consider  himself  the  inferior  one  of  the  two  high 
contracting  parties.  When  he  came  to  live  with  the  Doctor, 
he  made  up  his  mind  he  would  dismiss  the  old  gentle 
man,  if  he  did  not  behave  according  to  his  notions  of  pro 
priety.  But  he  soon  found  that  the  Doctor  was  one  of  the 
right  sort,  and  so  determined  to  keep  him.  The  Doctor  soon 
found,  on  his  side,  that  he  had  a  trustworthy,  intelligent 
fellow,  who  would  be  invaluable  to  him,  if  he  only  let  him 
have  his  own  way  of  doing  what  was  to  be  done. 

The  Doctor's  hired  man  had  not  the  manners  of  a  French 
valet.  He  was  grave  and  taciturn  for  the  most  part,  he 
never  bowed  and  rarely  smiled,  but  was  always  at  work  in 


THE    DOCTOR    ORDEKS    THE    BEST    SULKY.       101 

the  daytime  and  always  reading  in  the  evening.  He  was 
hostler,  and  did  all  the  housework  that  a  man  could  prop 
erly  do,  would  go  to  the  door  or  "  tend  table,"  bought  the 
provisions  for  the  family, — in  short,  did  almost  everything 
for  them  but  get  their  clothing.  There  was  no  office  in  a 
perfectly  appointed  household,  from  that  of  steward  down 
to  that  of  stable-boy,  which  he  did  not  cheerfully  assume. 
His  round  of  work  not  consuming  all  his  energies,  he  must 
needs  cultivate  the  Doctor's  garden,  which  he  kept  in  one 
perpetual  bloom,  from  the  blowing  of  the  first  crocus  to  the 
fading  of  the  last  dahlia. 

This  garden  was  Abel's  poem.  Its  half-dozen  beds  were  so 
many  cantos.  Nature  crowded  them  for  him  with  imagery 
such  as  no  Laureate  could  copy  in  the  cold  mosaic  of  language. 
The  rhythm  of  alternating  dawn  and  sunset,  the  strophe 
and  antistrophe  still  perceptible  through  all  the  sudden  shifts 
of  our  djthyrambic  seasons  and  echoed  in  corresponding 
floral  harmonies,  made  melody  in  the  soul  of  Abel,  the  plain 
serving-man.  It  softened  his  whole  otherwise  rigid  aspect. 
He  worshiped  God  according  to  the  strict  way  of  his  fa 
thers;  but  a  florist's  Puritanism  is  always  colored  by  the 
petals  of  his  flowers, — and  Nature  never  shows  him  a  black 
corolla. 

He  may  or  may  not  figure  again  in  this  narrative ;  but  as 
there  must  be  some  who  confound  the  New-England  hired 
man,  native-born,  with  the  servant  of  foreign  birth,  and  as 
there  is  the  difference  of  two  continents  and  two  civiliza 
tions  between  them,  it  did  not  seem  fair  to  let  Abel  bring 
round  the  Doctor's  mare  and  sulky  without  touching  his 
features  in  half -shadow  into  our  background. 

The  Doctor's  mare,  Cassia,  was  so  called  by  her  master 
from  her  cinnamon  color,  cassia  being  one  of  the  professional 
names  for  that  spice  or  drug.  She  was  of  the  shade  we  call 
sorrel,  or,  as  an  Englishman  would  perhaps  say,  chestnut, — 
a  genuine  "  Morgan  "  mare,  with  a  low  forehand,  as  is  com 
mon  in  this  breed,  but  with  strong  quarters  and  flat  hocks, 
well  ribbed  up,  with  a  good  eye  and  a  pair  of  lively  ears, — a 
first-rate  doctor's  beast, — would  stand  until  her  harness 
dropped  off  her  back  at  the  door  of  a  tedious  case,  and  trot 
over  hill  and  dale  thirty  miles  in  three  hours,  if  there  was  a 
child  in  the  next  county  with  a  bean  in  its  windpipe  and  the 
Doctor  gave  her  a  hint  of  the  fact.  Cassia  was  not  large, 


102  ELSIE  VENNEK. 

but  she  had  a  good  deal  of  action,  and  was  the  Doctor's 
show-horse.  There  were  two  other  animals  in  his  stable: 
Quassia  or  Quashy,  the  black  horse,  and  Caustic,  the  old 
bay,  with  whom  he  jogged  round  the  village. 

"A  long  ride  to-day?"  said  Abel,  as  he  brought  up  the 
equipage. 

"Just  out  of  the  village, — that's  all. — There's  a  kink  in 
her  mane, — pull  it  out,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Goin'  to  visit  some  of  the  great  folks,"  Abel  said  to 
himself.  "  Wonder  who  it  is."— Then  to  the  Doctor,—"  Any 
body  get  sick  at  Sprowles's  ?  They  say  Deacon  Soper  had  a 
fit,  after  eatin'  some  o'  their  frozen  victuals." 

The  Doctor  smiled.  He  guessed  the  Deacon  would  do 
well  enough.  He  was  only  going  to  ride  over  to  the  Dudley 
mansion-house. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON    ELSIE    VENNER. 

If  that  primitive  physician,  Chiron,  M.  D.,  appears  as  a 
Centaur,  as  we  look  at  him  through  the  lapse  of  thirty  cen 
turies,  the  modern  country-doctor,  if  he  could  be  seen  about 
thirty  miles  off,  could  not  be  distinguished  from  a  wheel- 
animalcule.  He  inhabits  a  wheel-carriage.  He  thinks  of 
stationary  dwellings  as  Long  Tom  Coffin  did  of  land  in 
general ;  a  house  may  be  well  enough  for  incidental  purposes, 
but  for  a  "  stiddy  "  residence  give  him  a  "  kerridge."  If  he 
is  classified  in  the  Linnaaan  scale,  he  must  be  set  down  thus : 
Genus  Homo ;  Species  Rotifer  inf usorius, — the  wheel-animal 
of  infusions. 

The  Dudley  mansion  was  not  a  mile  from  the  Doctor's; 
but  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  of  walking  to  see  any 
of  his  patients'  families,  if  he  had  any  professional  object 
in  his  visit.  Whenever  the  narrow  sulky  turned  in  at  a 
gate,  the  rustic  who  was  digging  potatoes,  or  hoeing  corn,  or 
swishing  through  the  grass  with  his  scythe,  in  wave-like 
crescents,  or  stepping  short  behind  a  loaded  wheelbarrow,  or 
trudging  lazily  by  the  side  of  the  swinging,  loose-throated, 
short-legged  oxen,  rocking  along  the  road  as  if  they  had  just 
been  landed  after  a  three-months'  voyage, — the  toiling  na 
tive,  whatever  he  was  doing,  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
house  the  Doctor  was  visiting. 

"  Somebody  sick  over  there  t'  Haynes's.  Guess  th'  old 
man's  ailin'  ag'in.  Winder's  haaf-way  open  in  the  chamber, 
shouldn'  wonder  'f  he  was  dead  and  laid  aout.  Docterin' 
a'n't  no  use,  when  y'  see  th'  winders  open  like  that.  Wahl, 
money  a'n't  much  to  speak  of  to  th'  old  man  naow !  He  don' 
want  but  tew  cents, — V  old  Widah  Peake,  she  knows  what 
he  wants  them  for !  " 

Or  again, — 

"  Measles  raound  pooty  thick.  Briggs's  folks  buried  two 
children  with  'em  laas'  week.  Th'  ol'  Doctor,  he'd  h'  ker'd 


104:  ELSIE   VENNER. 

'em  threugh.     Struck  in  'n'  p'dooced  mo't'f'cation, — so  they 
say." 

This  is  only  meant  as  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  way  they 
used  to  think  or  talk,  when  the  narrow  sulky  turned  in  at 
the  gate  of  some  house  where  there  was  a  visit  to  be  made. 

Oh,  that  narrow  sulky!  What  hopes,  what  fears,  what 
comfort,  what  anguish,  what  despair,  in  the  roll  of  its  com 
ing  or  its  parting  wheels!  In  the  spring,  when  the  old 
people  get  the  coughs  which  give  them  a  few  shakes  and 
their  lives  drop  in  pieces  like  the  ashes  of  a  burned  thread 
which  have  kept  the  threadlike  shape  until  they  were  stirred, 
in  the  hot  summer  noons,  when  the  strong  man  comes  in 
from  the  fields,  like  the  son  of  the  §hunamite,  crying,  "  My 
head,  my  head," — in  the  dying  autumn  days,  when  youth  and 
maiden  lie  fever-stricken  in  many  a  household,  still-faced, 
dull-eyed,  dark-flushed,  dry-lipped,  low-muttering  in  their 
daylight  dreams,  their  fingers  moving  singly  like  those  of 
slumbering  harpers, — in  the  dead  winter,  when  the  white 
plague  of  the  North  has  caged  its  wasted  victims,  shudder 
ing  as  they  think  of  the  frozen  soil  which  must  be  cniarried 
like  rock  to  receive  them,  if  their  perpetual  convalescence 
should  happen  to  be  interfered  with  by  any  untoward  ac 
cident, — at  every  season,  the  narrow  sulky  rolled  round 
freighted  with  unmeasured  burdens  of  joy  and  woe. 

The  Doctor  drove  along  the  southern  foot  of  The  Moun 
tain.  The  "  Dudley  Mansion  "  was  near  the  eastern  edge  of 
this  declivity,  where  it  rose  steepest,  with  baldest  cliffs  and 
densest  patches  of  overhanging  wood.  It  seemed  almost  too 
steep  to  climb,  but  a  practiced  eye  could  see  from  a  distance 
the  zigzag  lines  of  the  sheep-paths  which  scaled  it  like  min 
iature  Alpine  roads.  A  few  hundred  feet  up  The  Moun 
tain's  side  was  a  dark  deep  dell,  unwooded,  save  for  a  few 
spindling,  crazy-looking  hackmatacks  or  native  larches,  with 
pallid  green  tufts  sticking  out  fantastically  all  over  them.  It 
shelved  so  deeply,  that,  while  the  hemlock-tassels  were  swing 
ing  on  the  trees  around  its  border,  all  would  be  still  at  its 
springy  bottom,  save  that  perhaps  a  single  fern  would  wave 
slowly  backward  and  forward  like  a  saber  with  a  twist  as 
of  a  feathered  oar, — and  this  when  not  a  breath  could  be 
felt,  and  every  other  stem  and  blade  were  motionless.  There 
was  an  old  story  of  one  having  perished  here  in  the  winter 
of  '86,  and  his  body  having  been  found  in  the  spring, — 


THE    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON    ELSIE    VENDER.        105 

whence  its  common  name  of  "  Dead-Man's  Hollow."  Higher 
up  there  were  huge  cliffs  with  chasms,  and,  it  was  thought, 
concealed  caves,  where  in  old  times  they  said  that  Tories  lay 
hid, — some  hinted  not  without  occasional  aid  and  comfort 
from  the  Dudleys  then  living  in  the  mansion-house.  Still 
higher  and  farther  west  lay  the  accursed  ledge, — shunned 
by  all,  unless  it  were  now  and  then  a  daring  youth,  or  a 
wandering  naturalist  who  ventured  to  its  edge  in  the  hope 
of  securing  some  infantile  Crotalus  durissus,  who  had  not 
yet  cut  his  poison-teeth. 

Long,  long  ago,  in  old  Colonial  times,  the  Honorable 
Thomas  Dudley,  Esquire,  a  man  of  note  and  name  and  great 
resources,  allied  by  descent  to  the  family  of  "  Tom  Dudley," 
as  the  early  Governor  is  sometimes  irreverently  called  by 
our  most  venerable,  but  still  youthful  antiquary, — and  to  the 
other  public  Dudleys,  of  course, — of  all  of  whom  he  made 
small  account,  as  being  himself  an  English  gentleman,  with 
little  taste  for  the  splendors  of  provincial  office, — early  in 
the  last  century,  Thomas  Dudley  had  built  this  mansion. 
For  several  generations  it  had  been  dwelt  in  by  descend 
ants  of  the  same  name,  but  soon  after  the  Revolution  it 
passed  by  marriage  into  the  hands  of  the  Venners,  by  whom 
it  had  ever  since  been  held  and  tenanted. 

As  the  Doctor  turned  an  angle  in  the  road,  all  at  once 
the  stately  old  house  rose  before  him.  It  was  a  skillfully 
managed  effect,  as  it  well  might  be,  for  it  was  no  vulgar 
English  architect  who  had  planned  the  mansion  and  ar 
ranged  its  position  and  approach.  The  old  house  rose  be 
fore  the  Doctor,  crowning  a  terraced  garden,  flanked  at  the 
left  by  an  avenue  of  tall  elms.  The  flower-beds  were  edged 
with  box,  which  diffused  around  it  that  dreamy  balsamic 
odor,  full  of  ante-natal  reminiscences  of  a  lost  Paradise, 
dimly  fragrant  as  might  be  the  bdellium  of  ancient  Havi- 
lah,  the  land  compassed  by  the  river  Pison  that  went  out 
of  Eden.  The  garden  was  somewhat  neglected,  but  not  in 
disgrace, — and  in  the  time  of  tulips  and  hyacinths,  of  roses, 
of  "  snowballs,"  of  honeysuckles,  of  lilacs,  of  syringas,  it  was 
rich  with  blossoms. 

From  the  front-windows  of  the  mansion  the  eye  reached  a 
far  blue  mountain-summit, — no  rounded  heap,  such  as  often 
shuts  in  a  village-landscape,  but  a  sharp  peak,  clean-angled 
as  Ascutney  from  the  Dartmouth  green.  A  wide  gap 


106  ELSIE    VENNER. 

through  miles  of  woods  had  opened  this  distant  view,  and 
showed  more,  perhaps,  than  all  the  labors  of  the  architect 
and  the  landscape-gardener  the  larger  style  of  the  early 
Dudleys. 

The  great  stone-chimney  of  the  mansion-house  was  the 
center  from  which  all  the  artificial  features  of  the  scene  ap 
peared  to  flow.  The  roofs,  the  gables,  the  dormer-windows, 
the  porches,  the  clustered  offices  in  the  rear,  all  seemed  to 
crowd  about  the  great  chimney.  To  this  central  pillar  the 
paths  all  converged.  The  single  poplar  behind  the  house, — 
Nature  is  jealous  of  proud  chimneys,  and  always  loves  to 
put  a  poplar  near  one,  so  that  it  may  fling  a  leaf  or  two  down 
its  black  throat  every  autumn, — the  one  tall  poplar  behind 
the  house  seemed  to  nod  and  whisper  to  the  grave  square 
column,  the  elms  to  sway  their  branches  towards  it.  And 
when  the  blue  smoke  rose  from  its  summit,  it  seemed  to  be 
wafted  away  to  join  the  azure  haze  which  hung  around  the 
peak  in  the  far  distance,  so  that  both  should  bathe  in  a 
common  atmosphere. 

Behind  the  house  were  clumps  of  lilacs  with  a  century's 
growth  upon  them,  and  looking  more  like  trees  than  like 
shrubs.  Shaded  by  a  group  of  these  was  the  ancient  well, 
of  huge  circuit,  and  with  a  low  arch  opening  out  of  its  wall 
about  ten  feet  below  the  surface, — 'whether  the  door  of  a 
crypt  for  the  concealment  of  treasure,  or  of  a  subterranean 
passage,  or  merely  of  a  vault  for  keeping  provisions  cool  in 
hot  weather,  opinions  differed. 

j  On  looking  at  the  house,  it  was  plain  that  it  was  built 
|  with  Old- World  notions  of  strength  and  durability,  and,  so 
far  as  might  be,  with  Old-World  materials.  The  hinges  of 
the  doors  stretched  out  like  arms,  instead  of  like  hands,  as 
we  make  them.  The  bolts  were  massive  enough  for  a  donjon- 
keep.  The  small  window-panes  were  actually  inclosed  in  the 
wood  of  the  sashes,  instead  of  being  stuck  to  them  with 
putty,  as  in  our  modern  windows.  The  broad  staircase  was 
of  easy  ascent,  and  was  guarded  by  quaintly  turned  and 
twisted  balusters.  The  ceilings  of  the  two  rooms  of  state 
were  molded  with  medallion-portraits  and  rustic  figures, 
such  as  may  have  been  seen  by  many  readers  in  the  famous 
old  Philipse  house, — Washington's  headquarters, — in  the 
town  of  Yonkers.  The  fire-places,  worthy  of  the  wide-throated 
central  chimney,  were  bordered  by  pictured  tiles,  some  of 


THE   DOCTOK    CALLS    ON    ELSIE   VENNEK.        107 

them  with  Scripture  stories,  some  with  Watteau-like  figures, 
— tall  damsels  in  slim  waists  and  with  spread  enough  of 
skirt  for  a  modern 'ballroom,  with  bowing,  reclining,  or  mu 
sical  swains  of  what  everybody  calls  the  "  conventional " 
sort,— that  is,  the  swain  adapted  to  genteel  society  rather 
than  to  a  literal  sheep-compelling  existence. 

The  house  was  furnished,  soon  after  it  was  completed, 
with  many  heavy  articles  made  in  London  from  a  rare  wood 
just  then  come  into  fashion,  not  so  rare  now,  and  commonly 
known  as  mahogany.  Time  had  turned  it  very  dark,  and  the 
stately  bedsteads  and  tall  cabinets  and  claw-footed  chairs 
and  tables  were  in  keeping  with  the  sober  dignity  of  the 
ancient  mansion.  The  old  "  hangings  "  were  yet  preserved  in 
the  chambers,  faded,  but  still  showing  their  rich  patterns, — 
properly  entitled  to  their  name,  for  they  were  literally  hung 
upon  flat  wooden  frames  like  trellis-work,  which  again  were 
secured  to  the  naked  partitions. 

There  were  portraits  of  different  date  on  the  walls  of  the 
various  apartments,  old  painted  coats-of-arms,  bevel-edged 
mirrors,  and  in  one  sleeping-room  a  glass  case  of  wax-work 
flowers  and  spangly  symbols,  with  a  legend  signifying  that 
E.  M.  (supposed  to  be  Elizabeth  Mascarene)  wished  not  to 
be  "  forgot " 

"  When  I  am  dead  and  laid  in  dust 
And  all  my  bones  are " 

Poor  E.  M, !  Poor  everybody  that  sighs  for  earthly  remem 
brance  in  a  planet  with  a  core  of  fire  and  a  crust  of  fossils ! 
Such  was  the  Dudley  mansion-house,  for  it  kept  its  ancient 
name  in  spite  of  the  change  in  the  line  of  descent.  Its 
spacious  apartments  looked  dreary  and  desolate;  for  here 
Dudley  Venner  and  his  daughter  dwelt  by  themselves,  with 
such  servants  only  as  their  quiet  mode  of  life  required.  He 
almost  lived  in  his  library,  the  western  room  on  the  ground- 
flooT.  Its  windows  looked  upon  a  small  plat  of  green,  in 
the  midst  of  which  was  a  single  grave  marked  by  a  plain 
marble  slab.  Except  this  room,  and  the  chamber  where  he 
slept,  and  the  servants'  wing,  the  rest  of  the  house  was  all 
Elsie's.  She  was  always  a  restless,  wandering  child  from  her 
early  years,  and  would  have  her  little  bed  moved  from  one 
chamber  to  another, — flitting  around  as  the  fancy  took  her. 
Sometimes  she  would  drag  a  mat  and  a  pillow  into  one  of 


108  ELSIE   VENDER. 

the  great  empty  rooms,  and,  wrapping  herself  in  a  shawl, 
coil  up  and  go  to  sleep  in  a  corner.  Nothing  frightened  her ; 
the  "  haunted  "  chamber,  with  the  torn  hangings  that  flapped 
like  wings  when  there  was  air  stirring,  was  one  of  her  fav 
orite  retreats. 

She  had  been  a  very  hard  creature  to  manage.  Her  father 
could  influence,  but  not  govern  her.  Old  Sophy,  born  of  a 
slave  mother  in  the  house,  could  do  more  with  her  than  any 
body,  knowing  her  by  long  instinctive  study.  The  other  ser 
vants  were  afraid  of  her.  Her  father  had  sent  for  gov 
ernesses,  but  none  of  them  ever  stayed  long.  She  made  them 
nervous;  one  of  them  had  a  strange  fit  of  sickness;  not  one 
of  them  ever  came  back  to  the  house  to  see  her.  A  young 
Spanish  woman  who  taught  her  dancing  succeeded  best  with 
her,  for  she  had  a  passion  for  that  exercise,  and  had  mastered 
some  of  the  most  difficult  dances. 

Long  before  this  period,  she  had  manifested  some  most 
extraordinary  singularities  of  taste  or  instinct.  The  ex 
treme  sensitiveness  of  her  father  on  this  point  prevented 
any  allusion  to  them ;  but  there  were  stories  floating  around, 
some  of  them  even  getting  into  the  papers, — without  her 
name,  of  course, — which  were  of  a  kind  to  excite  intense  cu 
riosity,  if  not  more  anxious  feelings.  This  thing  was  certain, 
that  at  the  age  of  twelve  she  was  missed  one  night,  and  was 
found  sleeping  in  the  open  air  under  a  tree,  like  a  wild  crea 
ture.  Very  often  she  would  wander  off  by  day,  always  with 
out  a  companion,  bringing  home  with  her  a  nest,  a  flower,  or 
even  a  more  questionable  trophy  of  her  ramble,  such  as 
showed  that  there  was  no  place  where  she  was  afraid  to 
venture.  Once  in  a  while  she  had  stayed  out  over  night,  in 
which  case  the  alarm  was  spread,  and  men  went  in  search 
of  her,  but  never  successfully, — so  that  some  said  she  hid 
herself  in  trees,  and  others  that  she  had  found  one  of  the 
old  Tory  caves. 

Some,  of  course,  said  she  was  a  crazy  girl,  and  ought  to  be 
sent  to  an  Asylum.  But  old  Doctor  Kittredge  had  shaken 
his  head,  and  told  them  to  bear  with  her,  and  let  her  have 
her  way  as  much  as  they  could,  but  watch  her,  as  far  as 
possible,  without  making  her  suspicious  of  them.  He  visited 
her  now  and  then,  under  the  pretext  of  seeing  her  father  on 
business,  or  of  only  making  a  friendly  call. 

The  Doctor  fastened  his  horse  outside  the  gate,  and  walked 


THE   DOCTOK   CALLS    01ST    ELSIE   VENNER.        109 

up  the  garden-alley.  He  stopped  suddenly  with  a  start.  A 
strange  sound  had  jarred  upon  his  ear.  It  was  a  sharp  pro 
longed  rattle,  continuous,  but  rising  and  falling  as  if  in 
rhythmical  cadence.  He  moved  softly  towards  the  open  win 
dow  from  which  the  sound  seemed  to  proceed. 

Elsie  was  alone  in  the  room,  dancing  one  of  those  wild 
Moorish  fandangoes,  such  as  a  matador  hot  from  the  Plaza 
de  Toros  of  Seville  or  Madrid  might  love  to  lie  and  gaze  at. 
She  was  a  figure  to  look  upon  in  silence.  The  dancing  frenzy 
must  have  seized  upon  her  while  she  was  dressing ;  for  she  j 
was  in  her  bodice,  bare-armed,  her  hair  floating  unbound  far  ! 
below  the  waist  of  her  barred  or  banded  skirt.  She  had 
caught  up  her  castanets,  and  rattled  them  as  she  danced 
with  a  kind  of  passionate  fierceness,  her  lithe  body  undulat 
ing  with  flexuous  grace,  her  diamond  eyes  glittering,  her 
round  arms  wreathing  and  unwinding,  alive  and  vibrant  to 
the  tips  of  her  slender  fingers.  Some  passion  seemed  to  ex 
haust  itself  in  this  dancing  paroxysm;  for  all  at  once  she 
reeled  from  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  flung  herself,  as  it 
were  in  a  careless  coil,  upon  a  great  tiger's-skin  which  was 
spread  out  in  one  corner  of  the  apartment. 

The  old  Doctor  stood  motionless,  looking  at  her  as  she  lay 
panting  on  the  tawny,  black-lined  robe  of  the  dead  monster, 
which  stretched  out  beneath  her,  its  rude  flattened  outline 
recalling  the  Terror  of  the  Jungle  as  he  crouched  for  his 
fatal  spring.  In  a  few  moments  her  head  drooped  upon  her 
arm,  and  her  glittering  eyes  closed, — she  was  sleeping.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  still,  steadily,  thoughtfully,  tenderly. 
Presently  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  recalling 
some  fading  remembrance  of  other  years. 

"  Poor  Catalina !  " 

This  was  all  he  said.  He  shook  his  head, — implying  that 
his  visit  would  be  in  vain  to-day, — returned  to  his  sulky,  and 
rode  away,  as  if  in  a  dream. 


CHAPTEK  XL 

U  L  fcfr'C. 

COUSIN  RICHARD'S  VISIT. 

The  Doctor  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  the  clatter  of 
approaching  hoofs.  He  looked  forward  and  saw  a  young  fel 
low  galloping  rapidly  towards  him. 

A  common  New  England  rider  with  his  toes  turned  out, 
his  elbows  jerking  and  the  daylight  showing  under  him  at 
every  step,  bestriding  a  cantering  beast  of  the  plebeian  breed, 
thick  at  every  point  where  he  should  be  thin,  and  thin  at 
every  point  where  he  should  be  thick,  is  not  one  of  those 
noble  objects  thai;  bewitch  the  world.  The  best  horsemen 
outside  of  the  cities  are  the  unshod  country-boys,  who  ride 
"  bare-back,"  with  only  a  halter  round  the  horse's  neck,  dig 
ging  their  brown  heels  into  his  ribs,  and  slanting  over  back 
wards,  but  sticking  on  like  leeches,  and  taking  the  hardest 
trot  as  if  they  loved  it.  This  was  a  different  sight  on  which 
the  Doctor  was  looking.  The  streaming  mane  and  tail  of 
the  unshorn,  savage-looking,  black  horse,  the  dashing  grace 
with  which  the  young  fellow  in  the  shadowy  sombrero,  and 
armed  with  the  huge  spurs,  sat  in  his  high-peaked  saddle, 
could  belong  only  to  the  mustang  of  the  Pampas  and  his 
master.  This  bold  rider  was  a  young  man  whose  sudden 
apparition  in  the  quiet  inland  town  had  reminded  some  of 
the  good  people  of  a  bright,  curly-haired  boy  they  had  known 
some  eight  or  ten  years  before  as  little  Dick  Venner. 

This  boy  had  passed  several  of  his  early  years  at  the 
Dudley  mansion,  the  playmate  of  Elsie,  being  her  cousin, 
two  or  three  years  older  than  herself,  the  son  of  Captain 
Richard  Venner,  a  South  American  trader,  who,  as  he 
changed  his  residence  often,  was  glad  to  leave  the  boy  in 
his  brother's  charge.  The  Captain's  wife,  this  boy's  mother, 
was  a  lady  of  Buenos  Ayres,  of  Spanish  descent,  and  had  died 
while  the  child  was  in  his  cradle.  These  two  motherless 
children  were  as  strange  a  pair  as  one  roof  could  well  cover. 
1  Both  handsome,  wild,  impetuous,  unmanageable,  they  played 

no 


COUSIN  KICHAED'S  VISIT.  Ill 

and  fought  together  like  two  young  leopards,  beautiful,  but 
dangerous,  their  lawless  instincts  showing  through  all  their 
graceful  movements. 

The  boy  was  little  else  than  a  young  Gaucho  when  he  first 
came  to  Rockland;  for  he  had  learned  to  ride  almost  as  soon 
as  to  walk,  and  could  jump  on  his  pony  and  trip  up  a  run 
away  pig  with  the  bolas  or  noose  him  with  his  miniature 
lasso  at  an  age  when  some  city  children  would  hardly  be 
trusted  out  of  sight  of  a  nursery-maid.  It  makes  men  im 
perious  to  sit  a  horse;  no  man  governs  his  fellows  so  well 
as  from  this  living  throne.  And,  so,  from  Marcus  Aurelius 
in  Roman  bronze,  down  to  the  "  man  on  horseback  "  in  Gen 
eral  Cushing's  prophetic  speech,  the  saddle  has  always  been^ 
the  true  seat  of  empire.  The  absolute  tyranny  of  a  human 
will  over  a  noble  and  powerful  beast  develops  the  instinct 
of  personal  prevalence  and  dominion;  so  that  horse-subduer  I 
and  hero  were  almost  synonymous  in  simpler  times,  and  are  f 
closely  related  still.  An  ancestry  of  wild  riders  naturally  " 
enough  bequeaths  also  those  other  tendencies  which  we  see 
in  the  Tartars,  the  Cossacks,  and  our  own  Indian  Cen 
taurs, — and  as  well,  perhaps,  in  the  old-fashioned  fox-hunt 
ing  squire  as  in  any  of  these.  Sharp  alternations  of  violent 
action  and  self-indulgent  repose,  a  hard  run,  and  a  long 
revel  after  it;  that  is  what  overmuch  horse  tends  to  animalize 
a  man  into.  Such  antecedents  may  have  helped  to  make  lit 
tle  Dick  Venner  a  self-willed,  capricious  boy,  and  a  rough 
playmate  for  Elsie. 

Elsie  was  the  wilder  of  the  two.  Old  Sophy,  who  used  to 
watch  them  with  those  quick,  animal-looking  eyes  of  hers, — 
she  was  said  to  be  the  granddaughter  of  a  cannibal  chief, 
and  inherited  the  keen  senses  belonging  to  all  creatures 
which  are  hunted  as  game, — Old  Sophy,  who  watched  them 
in  their  play  and  their  quarrels,  always  seemed  to  be  more 
afraid  for  the  boy  than  the  girl.  "  Massa  Dick !  Massa  Dick ! 
don7  you  be  too  rough  wi'  dat  gal !  Scratch  you  las'  week,  'n' 
some  day  she  bite  you;  'n'  if  she  bite  you,  Massa  Dick!" 
Old  Sophy  nodded  her  head  ominously,  as  if  she  could  say  a 
great  deal  more;  while,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  her 
caution,  Master  Dick  put  his  two  little  fingers  in  the  angles 
of  his  mouth,  and  his  forefingers  on  his  lower  eyelids,  draw 
ing  upon  these  features  until  his  expression  reminded  her  of 
something  she  vaguely  recollected  in  her  infancy, — the  face 


112  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

of  a  favorite  deity  executed  in  wood  by  an  African  artist  for 
her  grandfather,  brought  over  by  her  mother,  and  burned 
when  she  became  a  Christian. 

These  two  wild  children  had  much  in  common.  They  loved 
to  ramble  together,  to  build  huts,  to  climb  trees  for  nests,  to 
ride  the  colts,  to  dance,  to  race,  and  to  play  at  boys'  rude 
games  as  if  both  were  boys.  But  wherever  two  natures  have 
a  great  deal  in  common,  the  conditions  of  a  first-rate  quar 
rel  are  furnished  ready-made.  Relations  are  very  apt  to 
hate  each  other,  just  because  they  are  too  much  alike.  It  is 
so  frightful  to  be  in  an  atmosphere  of  family  idiosyncrasies; 
to  see  all  the  hereditary  uncomeliness  or  infirmity  of  body, 
all  the  defects  of  speech,  all  the  failings  of  temper,  intensi 
fied  by  concentration,  so  that  every  fault  of  our  own  finds 
itself  multiplied  by  reflections,  like  our  images  in  a  saloon 
lined  with  mirrors !  Nature  knows  what  she  is  about.  The 
centrifugal  principle  which  grows  out  of  the  antipathy  of 
like  to  like  is  only  the  repetition  in  character  of  the  arrange 
ment  we  see  expressed  materially  in  certain  seed  capsules, 
which  burst  and  throw  the  seed  to  all  points  of  the  compass. 
A  house  is  a  large  pod,  with  a  human  germ  or  two  in  each 
of  its  cells  or  chambers;  it  opens  by  dehiscence  of  the  front 
door  by-and-by,  and  projects  one  of  its  germs  to  Kansas, 
another  to  San  Francisco,  another  to  Chicago,  and  so  on; 
and  this  that  Smith  may  not  be  Smithed  to  death  and  Brown 
may  not  be  Browned  into  a  madhouse,  but  mix  with  the 
world  again  and  struggle  back  to  average  humanity. 

Elsie's  father,  whose  fault  was  to  indulge  her  in  every- 

;  thing,  found  that  it  would  never  do  to  let  these  children 
grow  up  together.  They  would  either  love  each  other  as 

;  they  got  older,  and  pair  like  wild  creatures,  or  take  some 
fierce  antipathy,  which  might  end  nobody  could  tell  where. 
It  was  not  safe  to  try.  The  boy  must  be  sent  away.  A 
sharper  quarrel  than  common  decided  this  point.  Master 
Dick  forgot  Old  Sophy's  caution,  and  vexed  the  girl  into  a 
paroxysm  of  wrath,  in  which  she  sprang  at  him  and  bit  his 
arm.  Perhaps  they  made  too  much  of  it,  for  they  sent  for 
the  old  Doctor,  who  came  at  once  when  he  heard  what  had 
happened.  He  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  the  danger 
there  was  from  the  teeth  of  animals  or  human  beings  when 
enraged;  and  as  he  emphasized  his  remarks  by  the  applica 
tion  of  a  pencil  of  lunar  caustic  to  each  of  the  marks  left  by 


COUSIN  EICHAED'S  VISIT.  113 

che  sharp  white  teeth,  they  were  like  to  be  remembered  by 
at  least  one  of  his  hearers. 

So  Master  Dick  went  off  on  his  travels,  which  led  him  into 
strange  places  and  stranger  company.  Elsie  was  half  pleased 
and  half  sorry  to  have  him  go;  the  children  had  a  kind  of 
mingled  liking  and  hate  for  each  other,  just  such  as  is  very 
common  among  relations.  Whether  the  girl  had  most  satisfac 
tion  in  the  plays  they  shared,  or  in  teasing  him,  or  taking 
her  small  revenge  upon  him  for  teasing  her,  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say.  At  any  rate  she  was  lonely  without  him. 
She  had  more  fondness  for  the  old  black  woman  than  any 
body;  but  Sophy  could  not  follow  her  far  beyond  her  own 
old  rocking  chair.  As  for  her  father,  she  had  made  him  afraid 
of  her,  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  her  own.  Sometimes  she  would 
seem  to  be  fond  of  him,  and  the  parent's  heart  would  yearn 
within  him  as  she  twined  her  supple  arms  about  him;  and 
then  some  look  she  gave  him,  some  half-articulated  expres 
sion,  would  turn  his  cheek  pale  and  almost  make  him  shiver, 
and  he  would  say  kindly,  "Now  go,  Elsie,  dear,"  and  smile 
upon  her  as  she  went  and  close  and  lock  the  door  softly  after 
her.  Then  his  forehead  would  knot  and  furrow  itself,  and 
the  drops  of  anguish  stand  thick  upon  it.  He  would  go  to 
the  western  window  of  his  study  and  look  at  the  solitary 
mound  with  the  marble  slab  for  its  headstone.  After  his 
grief  had  had  its  way,  he  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  his 
child  as  one  who  has  no  hope  save  in  that  special  grace  which 
can  bring  the  most  rebellious  spirit  into  sweet  subjection. 
All  this  might  seem  like  weakness  in  a  parent  having  the 
charge  of  one  sole  daughter  of  his  house  and  heart;  but  he 
had  tried  authority  and  tenderness  by  turns  so  long  with 
out  any  good  effect,  that  he  had  become  sore  perplexed,  and, 
surrounding  her  with  cautious  watchfulness  as  he  best  might, 
left  her  in  the  main  to  her  own  guidance  and  the  merciful  in 
fluences  which  Heaven  might  send  down  to  direct  her  foot 
steps. 

Meantime  the  boy  grew  up  to  youth  and  early  manhood 
through  a  strange  succession  of  adventures.  He  had  been 
at  school  at  Buenos  Ayres, — had  quarreled  with  his  mother's 
relatives, — had  run  off  to  the  Pampas,  and  lived  with  the 
Gauchos, — had  made  friends  with  the  Indians,  and  ridden 
with  them,  it  was  rumored,  in  some  of  their  savage  forays, — 
had  returned  and  made  up  his  quarrel, — had  got  money  by 


114  ELSIE   VENNER. 

inheritance  or  otherwise, — had  troubled  the  peace  of  certain 
magistrates, — had  found  it  convenient  to  leave  the  City  of 
Wholesome  Breezes,  for  a  time,  and  had  galloped  off  on  a 
fast  horse  of  his  (so  it  is  said),  with  some  officers  riding 
after  him,  who  took  good  care  (but  this  was  only  the  popular 
story)  not  to  catch  him.  A  few  days  after  this  he  was 
taking  his  ice  on  the  Alameda  of  Mendoza,  and  a  week 
or  two  later  sailed  from  Valparaiso  for  New  York,  carrying 
with  him  the  horse  with  which  he  had  scampered  over  the 
Plains,  a  trunk  or  two  with  his  newely  purchased  outfit  of 
clothing  and  other  conveniences,  and  a  belt  heavy  with  gold 
and  with  a  few  Brazilian  diamonds  sewed  in  it,  enough  in 
value  to  serve  him  for  a  long  journey. 

Dick  Venner  had  seen  life  enough  to  wear  out  the  earlier 
sensibilities  of  adolescence.  He  was  tired  of  worshiping  or 
tyrannizing  over  the  bistred  or  umbered  beauties  of  mingled 
blood  among  whom  he  had  been  living.  Even  that  piquant 
exhibition  which  the  Rio  de  Mendoza  presents  to  the 
amateur  of  breathing  sculpture  failed  to  interest  him.  He 
was  thinking  of  a  far-off  village  on  the  otfher  side  of  the 
equator,  and  of  the  wild  girl  with  whom  he  used  to  play  and 
quarrel,  a  creature  of  a  different  race  from  those  degenerate 
mongrels. 

"  A  game  little  devil  she  was,  sure  enough !  " — and  as 
Dick  spoke  he  bared  his  wrist  to  look  for  the  marks  she  had 
left  on  it:  two  small  white  scars,  where  the  two  small  sharp 
upper  teeth  had  struck  when  she  flashed  at  him  with  her 
eyes  sparkling  as  bright  as  those  glittering  stones  sewed  up 
in  the  belt  he  wore — "  That's  a  filly  worth  noosing !  "  said 
Dick  to  himself,  as  he  looked  in  admiration  at  the  sign  of 
her  spirit  and  passion.  "  I  wonder  if  she  will  bite  at 
eighteen  as  she  did  at  eight!  She  shall  have  a  chance  to 
try,  at  any  rate !  " 

Such  was  the  self-sacrificing  disposition  with  which 
Richard  Venner,  Esq.,  a  passenger  by  the  Condor  from  Val 
paraiso,  set  foot  upon  his  native  shore,  and  turned  his  face 
in  the  direction  of  Rockland,  The  Mountain  and  the  man 
sion-house.  He  had  heard  something,  from  time  to  time,  of 
his  New-England  relatives,  and  knew  that  they  were  living 
together  as  he  left  them.  And  so  he  heralded  himself  to 
"  My  dear  Uncle  "  by  a  letter  signed  "  Your  loving  nephew, 
Richard  Venner,"  in  which  letter  he  told  a  very  frank  story 


COUSIN  EICHAED'S  VISIT.  115 

of  travel  and  mercantile  adventure,  expressed  much  grati 
tude  for  the  excellent  counsel  and  example  which  had  helped 
to  form  his  character  and  preserve  him  in  the  midst  of  tempta 
tion,  inquired  affectionately  after  his  uncle's  health,  was 
much  interested  to  know  whether  his  lively  cousin  who  used 
to  be  his  playmate  had  grown  up  as  handsome  as  she 
promised  to  be,  and  announced  his  intention  of  paying  his 
respects  to  them  both  at  Rockland.  Not  long  after  this  came 
the  trunks  marked  R.  V.  which  he  had  sent  before  him, 
forerunners  of  his  advent:  he  was  not  going  to  wait  for  a 
reply  or  an  invitation. 

What  a  sound  that  is, — the  banging  down  of  the  pre 
liminary  trunk,  without  its  claimant  to  give  it  the  life  which 
is  borrowed  by  all  personal  appendages,  so  long  as  the 
owner's  hand  or  eye  is  on  them!  If  it  announce  the  coming 
of  one  loved  and  longed  for,  how  we  delight  to  look  at  it, 
to  sit  down  on  it,  to  caress  it  in  our  fancies,  as  a  lone  exile 
walking  out  on  a  windy  pier  yearns  towards  the  merchant 
man  lying  alongside,  with  the  colors  of  his  own  native  land  at 
her  peak,andthe  name  of  the  port  he  sailed  from  long  ago  upon 
her  stern!  But  if  it  tell  the  near  approach  of  the  undesired, 
inevitable  guest,  what  sound  short  of  the  muffled  noises  made 
by  the  undertakers  as  they  turn  the  corners  in  the  dim- 
lighted  house,  with  low  shuffle  of  feet  and  whispered  cautions, 
carries  such  a  sense  of  knocking-kneed  collapse  with  it  as  the 
thumping  down  in  the  front  entry  of  the  heavy  portmanteau, 
rammed  with  the  changes  of  uncounted  coming  weeks  ? 

Whether  the  R.  V.  portmanteaus  brought  one  or  the  other 
of  these  emotions  to  the  tenants  of  the  Dudley  mansion,  it 
might  not  be  easy  to  settle.  Elsie  professed  to  be  pleased 
with  the  thought  of  having  an  adventurous  young  stranger, 
with  stories  to  tell,  an  inmate  of  their  quiet,  not  to  say  dull, 
family.  Under  almost  any  other  circumstances,  her  father 
would  have  been  unwilling  to  take  a  young  fellow  of  whom 
he  knew  so  little,  under  his  roof;  but  this  was  his  nephew, 
and  anything  that  seemed  like  to  amuse  or  please  Elsie  was 
agreeable  to  him.  He  had  grown  almost  desperate,  and  felt 
as  if  any  change  in  the  current  of  her  life  and  feelings  might 
save  her  from  some  strange  paroxysm  of  dangerous  mental 
exaltation  or  sullen  perversion  of  disposition,  from  which 
some  fearful  calamity  might  come  to  herself  or  others. 

Dick  had  been  several  weeks  at  the  Dudley  mansion.    A 


I 


116  ELSIE   TENNER. 

few  days  before,  he  had  made  a  sudden  dash  for  the  nearest 
large  city, — and  when  the  Doctor  met  him,  he  was  just  return 
ing  from  his  visit. 

It  had  been  a  curious  meeting  between  the  two  young  per 
sons,  who  had  parted  so  young  and  after  such  strange  rela 
tions  with  each  other.  When  Dick  first  presented  himself 
at  the  mansion,  not  one  in  the  house  would  have  known  him 
for  the  boy  who  had  left  them  all  so  suddenly  years  ajgo. 
He  was  so  dark,  partly  from  his  descent,  partly  from  long 
habits  of  exposure,  that  Elsie  looked  almost  fair  beside  him. 
He  had  something  of  the  family  beauty  which  belonged  to 
his  cousin,  but  his  eye  had  a  fierce  passion  in  it,  very  unlike 
the  cold  glitter  of  Elsie's.  Like  many  people  of  strong  and 
imperious  temper,  he  was  soft-voiced  and  very  gentle  in  his 
address,  when  he  had  no  special  reason  for  being  otherwise. 
He  soon  found  reasons  enough  to  be  as  amiable  as  he  could 
force  himself  to  be  with  his  uncle  and  his  cousin.  Elsie  was 
to  his  fancy.  She  had  a  strange  attraction  for  him,  quite 
unlike  anything  he  had  ever  known  in  other  women.  There 
was  something,  too,  in  early  associations:  when  those  who 
parted  as  children  meet  as  man  and  woman,  there  is  always 
a  renewal  of  that  early  experience  which  followed  the  taste 
of  the  forbidden  fruit, — a  natural  blush  of  consciousness,  not 
without  its  charm. 

Nothing  could  be  more  becoming  than  the  behavior  of 
"  Richard  Venner,  Esquire,  the  guest  of  Dudley  Venner, 
Esquire,  at  his  noble  mansion,"  as  he  was  announced  in 
the  Court  column  of  the  "  Rockland  Weekly  Universe." 
He  was  pleased  to  find  himself  treated  with  kindness 
and  attention  as  a  relative.  He  made  himself  very 
agreeable  by  abundant  details  concerning  the  religious, 
political,  social,  commercial,  and  educational  progress  of  the 
South  American  cities  and  states.  He  was  himself  much 
interested  in  everything  that  was  going  on  about  the  Dudley 
mansion,  walked  all  over  it,  noticed  its  valuable  wood-lots 
with  special  approbation,  was  delighted  with  the  grand  old 
house  and  its  furniture,  and  would  not  be  easy  until  he  had 
seen  all  the  family  silver  and  heard  its  history.  In  return. 
he  had  much  to  tell  of  his  father,  now  dead, — the  only  one  of 
the  Venners,  besides  themselves,  in  whose  fate  his  uncle  was 
interested.  With  Elsie,  he  was  subdued  and  almost  tender 


HICHAKD'S  VISIT.  117 

in  his  manner;  with  the  few  visitors  whom  they  saw,  shy 
and  silent, — perhaps  a  little  watchful,  if  any  young  man 
happened  to  be  among  them. 

Young  fellows  placed  on  their  good  behavior  are  apt  to 
get  restless  and  nervous,  all  ready  to  fly  off  into  some  mis 
chief  or  other.  Dick  Venner  had  his  half-tamed  horse  with 
him  to  work  off  his  suppressed  life  with.  When  the  savage 
passion  of  his  young  blood  came  over  him,  he  would  fetch 
out  the  mustang,  screaming  and  kicking  as  these  amiable 
beasts  are  wont  to  do,  strap  the  Spanish  saddle  tight  to  his 
back,  vault  into  it,  and  after  getting  away  from  the  village, 
strike  the  long  spurs  into  his  sides  and  whirl  away  in  a  wild 
gallop,  until  the  black  horse  was  flecked  with  white  foam, 
and  the  cruel  steel  points  were  red  with  his  blood.  When 
horse  and  rider  were  alike  tired,  he  would  fling  the  bridle  on 
his  neck  and  saunter  homeward,  always  contriving  to  get 
to  the  stable  in  a  quiet  way,  and  coming  into  the  house  as 
calm  as  a  bishop  after  a  sober  trot  on  his  steady-going  cob. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  this  kind  of  life,  he  began  to  want 
some  more  fierce  excitement.  He  had  tried  making  down 
right  love  to  Elsie,  with  no  great  success  as  yet,  in  his  own 
opinion.  The  girl  was  capricious  in  her  treatment  of  him. 
sometimes  scowling  and  repellent,  sometimes  familiar,  very 
often,  as  she  used  to  be  of  old,  teasing  and  malicious.  All 
this,  perhaps,  made  her  more  interesting  to  a  young  man 
who  was  tired  of  easy  conquests.  There  was  a  strange  fasci 
nation  in  her  eyes,  too,  which  at  times  was  quite  irresistible, 
so  that  he  would  feel  himself  drawn  to  her  by  a  power  which 
seemed  to  take  away  his  will  for  the  moment.  It  may  have 
been  nothing  but  the  common  charm  of  bright  eyes;  but  he 
had  never  before  experienced  the  same  kind  of  attraction. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  so  very  different  from  what  she  had 
been  as  a  child,  after  all.  At  any  rate,  so  it  seemed  to  Dick 
Venner,  who,  as  he  said  before,  had  tried  making  love  to 
her.  They  were  sitting  alone  in  the  study  one  day;  Elsie 
had  round  her  neck  that  somewhat  peculiar  ornament,  the 
golden  torque,  which  she  had  worn  to  the  great  party. 
Youth  is  adventurous  and  very  curious  about  necklaces, 
brooches,  chains,  and  other  such  adornments,  so  long  as  they 
are  worn  by  young  persons  of  the  female  sex.  Dick  was 
seized  with  a  great  passion  for  examining  this  curious  chain, 
and,  after  some  preliminary  questions,  was  rash  enough  to 


118  ELSIE   VENNEJR. 

lean  towards  her  and  put  out  'his  hand  toward  the  neck  that 
lay  in  the  golden  coil.  She  threw  her  head  back,  her  eyes 
narrowing  and  her  forehead  drawing  down  so  that  Dick 
thought  her  head  actually  flattened  itself.  He  started  in 
voluntarily;  for  she  looked  so  like  the  little  girl  who  had 
struck  him  with  those  sharp  flashing  teeth,  that  the  whole 
scene  came  back,  and  he  felt  the  stroke  again  as  if  it  had 
just  been  given,  and  the  two  white  scars  began  to  sting  as 
they  did  after  the  old  Doctor  had  burned  them  with  that 
stick  of  gray  caustic,  which  looked  so  like  a  slate  pencil,  and 
felt  so  much  like  the  end  of  a  red-hot  poker. 

It  took  something  more  than  a  gallop  to  set  him  right  after 
this.  The  next  day  he  mentioned  Having  received  a  letter 
from  a  mercantile  agent  with  whom  he  had  dealings.  What 
his  business  was  is,  perhaps,  none  of  our  business.  At  any 
rate,  it  required  him  to  go  at  once  to  the  city  where  his  cor 
respondent  resided. 

Independently  of  this  "  business  "  which  called  him,  there 
may  have  been  other  motives,  such  as  have  been  hinted  at. 
People  who  have  been  living  for  a  long  time  in  dreary 
country-places,  without  any  emotion  beyond  such  as  are 
occasioned  by  a  trivial  pleasure  or  annoyance,  often  get 
crazy  at  last  for  a  vital  paroxysm  of  some  kind  or  other. 
In  this  state  they  rush  to  the  great  cities  for  a  plunge  into 
their  turbid  lifebaths,  with  a  frantic  thirst  for  every  exciting 
pleasure,  which  makes  them  the  willing  and  easy  victims 
of  all  those  who  sell  the  Devil's  wares  on  commission.  The 
less  intelligent  and  instructed  class  of  unfortunates,  who 
venture  with  their  ignorance  and  their  instincts  into  what 
is  sometimes  called  the  "  life "  of  great  cities,  are  put 
through  a  rapid  course  of  instruction  which  entitles  them 
very  commonly  to  a  diploma  from  the  police  court.  But 
they  only  illustrate  the  working  of  the  same  tendency  in 
mankind  at  large  which  has  been  occasionally  noticed  in  the 
sons  of  ministers  and  other  eminently  worthy  people,  by 
many  ascribed  to  that  intense  congenital  hatred  for  goodness 
which  distinguishes  human  nature  from  that  of  the  brute, 
but  perhaps  as  readily  accounted  for  by  considering  it  as  the 
yawning  and  stretching  of  a  young  soul  cramped  too  long 
in  one  moral  posture. 

Richard  Venner  was  a  young  man  of  remarkable  ex 
perience  for  his  years.  He  ran  less  risk,  therefore,  in  ex- 


COUSIN  RICHARD'S  VISIT.  119 

posing  himself  to  the  temptations  and  dangers  of  a  great 
city  than  many  older  men,  who,  seeking  the  livelier  iscenes  of 
excitement  to  be  found  in  large  towns  as  a  relaxation  after 
the  monotonous  routine  of  family-life,  are  too  often  taken 
advantage  of  and  made  the  victims  of  their  sentiments  or 
their  generous  confidence  in  their  fellow-creatures.  Such 
was  not  his  destiny.  There  was  something  about  him  which 
looked  as  if  he  would  not  take  bullying  kindly.  He  had  also 
the  advantage  of  being  acquainted  with  most  of  those  in 
genious  devices  by  which  the  proverbial  inconstancy  of 
fortune  is  steadied  to  something  more  nearly  approaching 
fixed  laws,  and  the  dangerous  risks  which  have  so  often  led 
young  men  to  ruin  and  suicide  are  practically  reduced  to 
somewhat  less  than  nothing.  So  that  Mr.  Richard  Venner 
worked  off  his  nervous  energies  without  any  troublesome 
adventure,  and  was  ready  to  return  to  Rockland  in  less  than 
a  week,  without  having  lightened  the  money-belt  he  wore 
round  his  body,  or  tarnished  the  long  glittering  knife  he 
carried  in  his  boot. 

Di^k  had  sent  his  trunk  to  the  nearest  town  through  which 
the  railroad  leading  to  the  city  passed.  He  rode  off  on  his 
black  horse  and  left  him  at  the  place  where  he  took  the 
cars.  On  arriving  at  the  city  station,  he  took  a  coach  and 
drove  to  one  of  the  great  hotels.  Thither  drove  also  a 
sagacious-looking  middle-aged  man,  who  entered  his  name 
as  "  W.  Thompson "  in  the  book  at  the  office  immediately 
after  that  of  "  R.  Venner."  Mr.  "  Thompson  "  kept  a  care 
lessly  observant  eye  upon  Mr.  Venner  during  his  stay  at  the 
hotel,  and  followed  him  to  the  cars  when  he  left,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  when  he  bought  his  ticket  at  the  station, 
and  seeing  him  fairly  off  without  obtruding  himself  in  any 
offensive  way  upon  his  attention.  Mr.  Thompson,  known  in 
other  quarters  as  Detective  Policeman  Terry,  got  very  little 
by  his  trouble.  Richard  Venner  did  not  turn  out  to  be  the 
wife-prisoner  the  defaulting  cashier,  the  river-pirate,  or  the 
great  counterfeiter.  He  paid  his  hotel-bill  as  a  gentleman 
should  always  do,  if  he  has  the  money  and  can  spare  it.  The 
detective  had  probably  overrated  his  own  sagacity  when  he 
ventured  to  suspect  Mr.  Venner.  He  reported  to  his  chief 
that  there  was  a  knowing-looking  fellow  he  had  been  round 
after,  but  he  rather  guessed  he  was  nothing  more  than  "  one 
o?  them  Southern  sportsmen." 


120  ELSIE   VENNER. 

The  poor  fellows  at  the  stable  where  Dick  had  left  his  horse 
had  had  trouble  enough  with  him.  One  of  the  ostlers  was 
limping  about  with  a  lame  leg,  and  another  had  lost  a  mouth 
ful  of  his  coat,  which  came  very  near  carrying  a  piece  of  his 
shoulder  with  it.  When  Mr.  Venner  came  back  for  his 
beast,  he  was  as  wild  as  if  he  had  just  been  lassoed,  scream 
ing,  kicking,  rolling  over  to  get  rid  of  his  saddle, — and  when 
his  rider  was  at  last  mounted,  jumping  about  in  a  way  to 
dislodge  any  common  horseman.  To  all  this  Dick  replied  by 
sticking  his  long  spurs  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  flanks, 
until  the  creature  found  he  was  mastered,  and  dashed  off  as 
if  all  the  thistles  of  the  Pampas  were  pricking  him. 

"  One  more  gallop,  Juan ! "  This  was  in  the  last  mile  of 
the  road  before  he  came  to  the  town  which  brought  him  in 
sight  of  the  mansion-house.  It  was  in  this  last  gallop  that 
the  fiery  mustang  and  his  rider  flashed  by  the  old  Doctor. 
Cassia  pointed  her  sharp  ears  and  shied  to  let  them  pass. 
The  Doctor  turned  and  looked  through  the  little  round  glass 
in  the  back  of  his  sulky. 

"  Dick  Turpin,  there,  will  find  more  than  his  match ! " 
said  the  Doctor. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    APOLLINEAN    INSTITUTE. 

(With  Extracts  from  the  "  Report  of  the  Committee") 

The  readers  of  this  narrative  will  hardly  expect  any 
elaborate  details  of  the  educational  management  of  the 
Apollinean  Institute.  They  cannot  be  supposed  to  take  the 
same  interest  in  its  affairs  as  was  shown  by  the  Annual 
Committees  who  reported  upon  its  condition  and  prospects. 
As  these  Committees  were,  however,  an  important  part  of 
the  mechanism  of  the  establishment,  some  general  account 
of  their  organization  and  a  few  extracts  from  the  Report  of 
the  one  last  appointed  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

Whether  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  had  some  contrivance  for 
packing  his  Committees,  whether  they  happened  always  to  be 
made  up  of  optimists  by  nature,  whether  they  were  cajoled 
into  good-humor  by  polite  attentions,  or  whether  they  were 
always  really  delighted  with  the  wonderful  acquirements 
of  the  pupils  and  the  admirable  order  of  the  school,  it  is 
certain  that  their  Annual  Reports  were  couched  in  language 
which  might  warm  the  heart  of  the  most  cold-blooded  and 
calculating  father  that  ever  had  a  family  of  daughters  to 
educate.  In  fact,  these  Annual  Reports  were  considered  by 
Mr.  Peckham  as  his  most  effective  advertisements. 

The  first  thing,  therefore,  was  to  see  that  the  Committee 
was  made  up  of  persons  known  to  the  public.  Some  worn- 
out  politician,  in  that  leisurely  and  amiable  transition-state 
which  comes  between  official  extinction  and  the  paralysis 
which  will  finish  him  as  soon  as  his  brain  gets  a  little  softer, 
made  an  admirable  Chairman  for  Mr.  Peckham,,  when  he 
had  the  luck  to  pick  up  such  an  article.  Old  reputations, 
like  old  fashions,  are  more  prized  in  the  grassy  than  in  the 
stony  districts.  An  effete  celebrity,  who  would  never  be 
heard  of  again  in  the  great  places  until  the  funeral  sermon 
waked  up  his  memory  for  one  parting  spasm,  finds  himself 
in  full  flavor  of  renown  a  little  farther  back  from  the  chang- 

121 


122  ELSIE   VENNER. 

ing  winds  of  the  sea-coast.  If  such  a  public  character  was 
not  to  be  had,  so  that  there  was  no  chance  of  heading  the 
Report  with  the  name  of  the  Honorable  Mr.  Somebody,  the 
next  best  thing  was  to  get  the  Reverend  Dr.  Somebody  to 
take  that  conspicuous  position.  Then  would  follow  two  or 
three  local  worthies  with  Esquire  after  their  names.  If  any 
stray  literary  personage  from  one  of  the  great  cities 
happened  to  be  within  reach,  he  was  pounced  upon  by  Mr. 
Silas  Peckham.  It  was  a  hard  case  for  the  poor  man,  who 
had  traveled  a  hundred  miles  or  two  to  the  outside  suburbs 
after  peace  and  unwatered  milk,  to  be  pumped  for  a  speech 
in  this  unexpected  way.  It  was  harder  still,  if  he  had  been 
induced  to  venture  a  few  tremulous  remarks,  to  be  obliged 
to  write  them  out  for  the  "  Rockland  Weekly  Universe,"  with 
the  chance  of  seeing  them  used  as  an  advertising  certificate 
as  long  as  he  lived,  if  he  lived  as  long  as  the  late  Dr.  Water- 
house  did  after  giving  his  certificate  in  favor  of  Whitwell's 
celebrated  Cephalic  Snuff. 

The  Report  of  the  last  Committee  had  been  signed  by  the 

Honorable ,  late of ,  as  Chairman.     (It  is  with 

reluctance  that  the  name  and  titles  are  left  in  blank ;  but  our 
public  characters  are  so  familiarly  known  to  the  whole 
community  that  this  reserve  becomes  necessary.)  The  other 
members  of  the  Committee  were  the  Reverend  Mr.  Butters, 
of  a  neighboring  town,  who  was  to  make  the  prayer  before 
the  Exercises  of  the  Exhibition,  and  two  or  three  notabilities 
of  Rockland,  with  geoponic  eyes,  and  glabrous,  bumpless 
foreheads.  A  few  extracts  from  the  Report  are  subjoined: 

"  The  Committee  have  great  pleasure  in  recording  their 
unanimous  opinion,  that  the  Insitution  was  never  in  so 
flourishing  a  condition.  .  . 

"  The  health  of  the  pupils  is  excellent ;  the  admirable 
quality  of  food  supplied  shows  itself  in  their  appearance ; 
their  blooming  aspect  excited  the  admiration  of  the  Com 
mittee  and  bears  testimony  to  the  assiduity  of  the  excellent 
Matron. 

"...  moral  and  religious  condition  most  encouraging, 
which  they  cannot  but  attribute  to  the  personal  efforts  and 
instruction  of  the  faithful  Principal,  who  considers  religious 
instruction  a  solemn  duty  which  he  cannot  commit  to  other 
people. 


THE    APOLLINEAN    INSTITUTE.  123 

u .  .  .  great  progress  in  their  studies,  under  the  intelligent 
superintendence  of  the  accomplished  Principal,  assisted  by 
Mr.  Badger,  [Mr.  Langdon's  predecessor,]  Miss  Darley,  the 
lady  who  superintends  the  English  branches,  Miss  Crabs,  her 
assistant  teacher  of  Modern  Languages,  and  Mr.  Schneider, 
teacher  of  French,  German,  Latin,  and  Music.  .  . 

"  Education  is  the  great  business  of  the  Institute.  Amuse 
ments  are  objects  of  a  secondary  nature;  but  these  are  by  no 
means  neglected.  .  . 

"...  English  compositions  of  great  originality  and 
beauty,  creditable  alike  to  the  head  and  heart  of  their  accom 
plished  authors  .  .  .  several  poems  of  a  very  high  order  of 
merit,  which  would  do  honor  to  the  literature  of  any  age  or 
country  .  .  .  life-like  drawings,  showing  great  proficiency. 
.  .  Many  converse  fluently  in  various  modern  languages  .  .  . 
perform  the  most  difficult  airs  with  the  skill  of  professional 
musicians.  .  . 

" .  .  .  advantages  unsurpassed,  if  equaled  by  those  of  any 
Institution  in  the  country,  and  reflecting  the  highest  honor 
on  the  distinguished  Head  of  the  Establishment,  SILAS  PECK- 
HAM,  Esquire,  and  his  admirable  Lady,  the  MATRON,  with 
their  worthy  assistants.  .  ." 

The  perusal  of  this  Eeport  did  Mr.  Bernard  more  good 
than  a  week's  vacation  would  have  done.  It  gave  him  such 
a  laugh  as  he  had  not  had  for  a  month.  The  way  in  which 
Silas  Peckham  had  made  his  Committee  say  what  he  wanted 
them  to — for  he  recognized  a  number  of  expressions  in  the 
Report  as  coming  directly  from  the  lips  of  his  principal,  and 
could  not  help  thinking  how  cleverly  he  had  forced  his 
phrases,  as  jugglers  do  the  particular  card  they  wish  their 
dupe  to  take — struck  him  as  particularly  neat  and  pleasing. 

He  had  passed  through  the  sympathetic  and  emotional 
stages  in  his  new  experience  and  had  arrived  at  the  philo 
sophical  and  practical  state,  which  takes  things  coolly,  and 
goes  to  work  to  set  them  right.  He  had  breadth  enough  of 
view  to  see  that  there  was  nothing  so  very  exceptional  in 
this  educational  trader's  dealings  with  his  subordinates,  but 
he  had  also  manly  feeling  enough  to  attack  the  particular 
individual  instance  of  wrong  before  him.  There  are  plenty 
of  dealers  in  morals,  as  in  ordinary  traffic,  who  confine  them 
selves  to  wholesale  business.  They  leave  the  small  necessity 


124  ELSIE   TENNER. 

of  their  next-door  neighbor  to  the  retailers,  who  are  poorer 
in  statistics  and  general  facts,  but  richer  in  the  every-day 
charities.  Mr.  Bernard  felt,  at  first,  as  one  does  who  sees 
a  gray  rat  steal  out  of  a  drain  and  begin  gnawing  at  the  bark 
of  some  tree  loaded  with  fruit  or  blossoms,  which  he  will 
soon  girdle,  if  he  is  let  alone.  The  first  impulse  is  to  murder 
him  with  the  nearest  ragged  stone.  Then  one  remembers 
that  he  is  a  rodent,  acting  after  the  law  of  his  kind,  and 
cools  down  and  is  contented  to  drive  him  off  and  guard  the 
tree  against  his  teeth  for  the  future.  As  soon  as  this  is  done, 
one  can  watch  his  attempts  at  mischief  with  a  certain  amuse 
ment. 

This  was  the  kind  of  process  Mr.  Bernard  had  gone 
through.  First,  the  indignant  surprise  of  a  generous  nature, 
when  it  comes  unexpectedly  into  relations  with  a  mean  one. 
Then  the  impulse  of  extermination, — a  divine  instinct,  in 
tended  to  keep  down  vermin  of  all  classes  to  their  working 
averages  in  the  economy  of  Nature.  Then  a  return  of  cheer 
ful  tolerance, — a  feeling,  that,  if  the  Deity  could  bear  with 
rats  and  sharpers,  he  could ;  with  a  confident  trust,  that,  in  the 
long  run,  terriers  and  honest  men  would  have  the  upper  hand, 
and  a  grateful  consciousness  that  he  had  been  sent  just  at 
the  right  time  to  come  between  a  patient  victim  and  the 
master  who  held  her  in  peonage. 

Having  once  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do,  Mr.  Bernard 
was  as  good-natured  and  hopeful  as  ever.  He  had  the  great 
advantage,  from  his  professional  training,  of  knowing  how 
to  recognize  and  deal  with  the  nervous  disturbances  to  which 
overtasked  women  are  so  liable.  He  saw  well  enough  that 
Helen  Darley  would  certainly  kill  herself  or  lose  her  wits,  if 
he  could  not  lighten  her  labors  and  lift  off  a  large  part  of  her 
weight  of  cares.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  she  was  one  of 
those  women  who  naturally  overwork  themselves,  like  those 
horses  who  will  go  at  the  top  of  their  pace  until  they  drop. 
Such  women  are  dreadfully  unmanageable.  It  is  as  hard 
reasoning  with  them  as  it  would  have  been  reasoning  with 
lo,  when  she  was  flying  over  land  and  sea,  driven  by  the  sting 
of  the  never-sleeping  gadfly. 

"This  was  a  delicate,  interesting  game  that  he  played. 
Under  one  innocent  pretext  or  another,  he  invaded  this  or 
that  special  province  she  had  made  her  own.  He  would 
collect  the  themes  and  have  them  all  read  and  marked, 


THE    APOLLINEAN    INSTITUTE.  125 

answer  all  the  puzzling  questions  in  mathematics,  make  the 
other  teachers  come  to  him  for  directions,  and  in  this  way 
gradually  took  upon  himself  not  only  all  the  general  superin 
tendence  that  belonged  to  his  office,  but  stole  away  so  many 
of  the  special  duties  which  might  fairly  have  belonged  to  his 
assistant,  that,  before  she  knew  it,  she  was  looking  better 
and  feeling  more  cheerful  than  for  many  and  many  a  month 
before. 

When  the  nervous  energy  is  depressed  by  any  bodily  cause, 
or  exhausted  by  overworking,  there  follow  effects  which  have 
often  been  misinterpreted  by  moralists,  and  especially  by 
theologians.  The  conscience  itself  becomes  neuralgic,  some 
times  actually  inflamed,  so  that  the  least  touch  is  agony.  Of 
all  liars  and  false  accusers,  a  sick  conscience  is  the  most 
inventive  and  indefatigable.  The  devoted  daughter,  wife, 
mother,  whose  life  has  been  given  to  unselfish  labors,  who  V 
has  filled  a  place  which  it  seems  to  others  only  an  angel 
would  make  good,  reproaches  herself  with  incompetence  and 
neglect  of  duty.  The  humble  Christian,  who  has  been  a 
model  to  others,  calls  himself  a  worm  of  the  dust  on  one  page 
of  his  diary,  and  arraigns  himself  on  the  next  for  coming 
short  of  the  perfection  of  an  archangel. 

Conscience  itself  requires  a  conscience,  or  nothing  can  be 
more  unscrupulous.  It  told  Saul  that  he  did  well  in  per 
secuting  the  Christians.  It  has  goaded  countless  multitudes 
of  various  creeds  to  endless  forms  of  self-torture.  The  cities 
of  India  are  full  of  cripples  it  has  made.  The  hill-sides  of 
Syria  are  riddled  with  holes,  where  miserable  hermits,  whose 
lives  it  had  palsied,  lived  and  died  like  the  vermin  they 
harbored.  Our  libraries  are  crammed  with  books  written  by 
spiritual  hypochondriacs,  who  inspected  all  their  moral  se 
cretions  a  dozen  times  a  day.  They  are  full  of  interest,  but 
they  should  be  transferred  from  the  shelf  of  the  theologian 
to  that  of  the  medical  man  who  makes  a  study  of  insanity. 

This  was  the  state  into  which  too  much  work  and  too  much 
responsibility  were  bringing  Helen  Darley,  when  the  new 
master  came  and  lifted  so  much  of  the  burden  that  was 
crushing  her  as  must  be  removed  before  she  could  have  a 
chance  to  recover  her  natural  elasticity  and  buoyancy. 
Many  of  the  noblest  women,  suffering  like  her,  but  less 
fortunate  in  being  relieved  at  the  right  moment,  die  worried 
out  of  life  by  the  perpetual  teasing  of  this  inflamed,  neuralgic 


126  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

conscience.  So  subtile  is  the  line  which  separates  the  true 
and  almost  angelic  sensibility  of  a  healthy,  but  exalted 
nature,  from  the  soreness  of  a  soul  which  is  sympathizing 
with  a  morbid  state  of  the  body,  that  it  is  no  wonder  they 
are  often  confounded.  And  thus  many  good  women  are 
suffered  to  perish  by  that  form  of  spontaneous  combustion 
in  which  the  victim  goes  on  toiling  day  and  night  with  the 
hidden  fire  consuming  her,  until  all  at  once  her  cheek 
whitens,  and,  as  we  look  upon  her,  she  drops  away,  a  heap 
of  ashes.  The  more  they  overwork  themselves,  the  more 
exacting  becomes  the  sense  of  duty, — as  the  draught  of  the 
locomotive's  furnace  blows  stronger  and  makes  the  fire  burn 
more  fiercely,  the  faster  it  spins  along  the  track. 

It  is  not  very  likely,  as  was  said  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  that  we  shall  trouble  ourselves  a  great  deal  about 
the  internal  affairs  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  These 
schools  are,  in  the  nature  of  things,  not  so  very  unlike  each 
other  as  to  require  a  minute  description  for  each  particular 
one  among  them.  They  have  all  very  much  the  same  general 
features,  pleasing  and  displeasing.  All  feeding-establish 
ments  have  something  odious  about  them, — from  the 
wretched  country-houses  where  paupers  are  farmed  out  to  the 
lowest  bidder,  up  to  the  commons-tables  at  colleges,  and  even 
the  fashionable  boarding-house.  A  person's  appetite  should 
be  at  war  with  no  other  purse  than  his  own.  Young  people, 
especially,  who  have  a  bone-factory  at  work  in  them,  and 
have  to  feed  the  living  looms  of  innumerable  growing 
tissues,  should  be  provided  for,  if  possible,  by  those  who  love 
them  like  their  own  flesh  and  blood.  Elsewhere  their  appe- 
ties  will  be  sure  to  make  them  enemies,  or,  what  are  almost 
as  bad,  friends  whose  interests  are  at  variance  with  the 
claims  of  their  exacting  necessities  and  demands. 

Besides,  all  commercial  transactions  in  regard  to  the  most 
sacred  interests  of  life  are  hateful  even  to  those  who  profit 
by  them.  The  clergyman,  the  physician,  the  teacher,  must 
be  paid;  but  each  of  them,  if  his  duty  be  performed  in  the 
true  spirit,  can  hardly  help  a  shiver  of  disgust  when  money 
is  counted  out  to  him  for  administering  the  consolations  of 
religion,  for  saving  some  precious  life,  for  sowing  the  seeds 
of  Christian  civilization  in  young  ingenuous  souls. 

And  yet  all  these  schools,  with  their  provincial  French 
and  their  mechanical  accomplishments,  with  their  cheap 


THE   APOLLTNEAN    INSTITUTE.  127 

parade  of  diplomas  and  commencements  and  other  public 
honors,  have  an  ever  fresh  interest  to  all  who  see  the  task 
they  are  performing  in  our  new  social  order.  These  girls  are 
not  being  educated  for  governesses,  or  to  be  exported,  with 
other  manufactured  articles,  to  colonies  where  there  happens 
to  be  a  surplus  of  males.  Most  of  them  will  be  wives,  and 
every  American-born  husband  is  a  possible  President  of 
these  United  States.  Any  one  of  these  girls  may  be  a  four- 
years'  queen.  There  is  no  sphere  of  human  activity  so 
exalted  that  she  may  not  be  called  upon  to  fill  it. 

But  there  is  another  consideration  of  far  higher  interest. 
The  education  of  our  community  to  all  that  is  beautiful  is 
flowing  in  mainly  through  its  women,  and  that  to  a  con-  » 
siderable  extent  by  the  aid  of  these  large  establishments,  the 
least  perfect  of  which  do  something  to  stimulate  the  higher 
tastes  and  partially  instruct  them.  Sometimes  there  is, 
perhaps,  reason  to  fear  that  girls  will  be  too  highly  educated 
for  their  own  happiness,  if  they  are  lifted  by  their  culture 
out  of  the  range  of  the  practical  and  every-day  working 
youth  by  whom  they  are  surrounded.  But  this  is  a  risk  we 
must  take.  Our  young  men  come  into  active  life  so  early, 
that,  if  our  girls  were  not  educated  to  something  beyond 
mere  practical  duties,  our  material  prosperity  would  outstrip 
our  culture ;  as  it  often  does  in  large  places  where  money  is 
made  too  rapidly.  This  is  the  meaning,  therefore,  of  that 
somewhat  ambitious  programme  common  to  most  of  these 
large  institutions,  at  which  we  sometimes  smile,  perhaps 
unwisely  or  uncharitably. 

We  shall  take  it  for  granted  that  the  routine  of  instruc 
tion  went  on  at  the  Apollinean  Institute  much  as  it  does  in 
other  schools  of  the  same  class.  People,  young  or  old,  are 
wonderfully  different,  if  we  contrast  extremes  in  pairs.  They 
approach  much  nearer,  if  we  take  them  in  groups  of  twenty. 
Take  two  separate  hundreds  as  they  come,  without  choosing, 
and  you  get  the  gamut  of  human  character  in  both  so  com 
pletely  that  you  can  strike  many  chords  in  each  which  shall 
be  in  perfect  unison  with  corresponding  ones  in  the  other. 
If  we  go  a  step  farther,  and  compare  the  population  of  two 
villages  of  the  same  race  and  region,  there  is  such  a  regularly 
graduated  distribution  and  parallelism  of  character,  that  it 
seems  as  if  Nature  must  turn  out  human  beings  in  sets  like 
chessmen. 


128  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  position  in  which  Mr.  Ber 
nard  now  found  himself  had  a  pleasing  danger  about  it 
which  might  well  justify  all  the  fears  entertained  on  his 
account  by  more  experienced  friends,  when  they  learned 
that  he  was  engaged  in  a  Young  Ladies'  Seminary.  The 
school  never  went  on  more  smoothly  than  during  the  first 
period  of  his  administration,  after  he  had  arranged  its 
duties,  and  taken  his  share,  and  even  more  than  his  share, 
upon  himself.  But  human  nature  does  not  wait  for  the 
diploma  of  the  Apollinean  Institute  to  claim  the  exercise  of 
its  instincts  and  faculties.  These  young  girls  saw  but  little 
of  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood.  The  mansion-house  young 
men  were  off  at  college  or  in  the  cities,  or  making  love  to 
each  other's  sisters,  or  at  any  rate  unavailable  for  some  reason 
or  other.  There  were  a  few  "  clerks," — that  is,  young  men 
who  attended  shops,  commonly  called  "  stores," — who  were 
fond  of  walking  by  the  Institute,  when  they  were  off  duty, 
for  the  sake  of  exchanging  a  word  or  a  glance  with  any  one 
of  the  young  ladies  they  might  happen  to  know,  if  any  such 
were  stirring  abroad :  crude  young  men,  mostly  with  a  great 
many  "  Sirs  "  and  "  Ma'ams  "  in  their  speech,  and  with  that 
style  of  address  sometimes  acquired  in  the  retail  business,  as 
if  the  salesman  were  recommending  himself  to  a  customer, — • 
"  First-rate  family  article,  Ma'am ;  warranted  to  wear  a  life 
time;  just  one  yard  and  three  quarters  in  this  pattern, 
Ma'am ;  shan't  I  have  the  pleasure  ?  "  and  so  forth.  If  there 
had  been  ever  so  many  of  them,  and  if  they  had  been  ever 
so  fascinating,  the  .quarantine  of  the  Institute  was  too 
rigorous  to  allow  any  romantic  infection  to  be  introduced 
from  without. 

Anybody  might  see  what  would  happen,  with  a  good-look 
ing,  well-dressed,  well-bred  young  man,  who  had  the  au 
thority  of  a  master,  it  is  true,  but  the  manners  of  a  friend 
and  equal,  moving  about  among  these  young  girls  day  after 
day,  his  eyes  meeting  theirs,  his  breath  mingling  with  theirs, 
his  voice  growing  familiar  to  them,  never  in  any  harsh  tones, 
often  soothing,  encouraging,  always  sympathetic,  with  its 
male  depth  and  breadth  of  sound  among  the  chorus  of 
trebles,  as  if  it  were  a  river  in  which  a  hundred  of  these  little 
piping  streamlets  might  lose  themselves;  anybody  might  see 
what  would  happen.  Young  girls  wrote  home  to  their  par 
ents  that  they  enjoyed  themselves  much,  this  term,  at  the 


THE    APOLLIKEAN   INSTITUTE.  129 

Institute,  and  thought  they  were  making  rapid  progress  in 
their  studies.  There  was  a  great  enthusiasm  for  the  young 
master's  reading-classes  in  English  poetry.  Some  of  the 
poor  little  things  began  to  adorn  themselves  with  an  extra 
ribbon,  or  a  bit  of  such  jewelry  as  they  had  before  kept  for 
great  occasions.  Dear  souls !  they  only  half  knew  what  they 
were  doing  it  for.  Does  the  bird  know  why  its  feathers  grow 
more  brilliant  and  its  voice  becomes  musical  in  the  pairing 
season  ? 

And  so,  in  the  midst  of  this  quiet  inland  town,  where  a 
mere  accident  had  placed  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon,  there  was 
a  concentration  of  explosive  materials  which  might  at  any 
time  change  its  Arcadian  and  academic  repose  into  a  scene 
of  dangerous  commotion.  What  said  Helen  Darley,  when 
she  saw  with  her  woman's  glance  that  more  than  one  girl, 
when  she  should  be  looking  at  her  book,  was  looking  over 
it  toward  the  master's  desk  ?  Was  her  own  heart  warmed  by 
any  livelier  feeling  than  gratitude,  as  its  life  began  to  flow 
with  fuller  pulses,  and  the  morning  sky  again  looked  bright 
and  the  flowers  recovered  their  lost  fragrance?  Was  there 
any  strange,  mysterious  affinity  between  the  master  and  the 
dark  girl  who  sat  by  herself?  Could  she  call  him  at  will  by 
looking  at  him  ?  Could  it  be  that  -  —  ?  It  made  her  shiver 
to  think  of  it. — And  who  was  that  strange  horseman  who 
passed  Mr.  Bernard  at  dusk  the  other  evening,  looking  so 
like  Mephistopheles  galloping  hard  to  be  in  season  at  the 
witches'  Sabbath-gathering?  That  must  be  the 'cousin  of 
Elsie's  who  wants  to  marry  her,  they  say.  A  dangerous- 
looking  fellow  for  a  rival,  if  one  took  a  fancy  to  the  dark 
girl!  And  who  is  she,  and  what? — by  what  demon  is  she 
haunted,  by  what  taint  is  she  blighted,  by  what  curse  is  she 
followed,  by  what  destiny  is  she  marked,  that  her  strange 
beauty  has  such  a  terror  in  it,  and  that  hardly  one  shall  dare 
to  love  her,  and  her  eye  glitters  always,  but  warms  for 
none? 

Some  of  these  questions  are  ours.  Some  were  Helen  Dar- 
ley's.  Some  of  them  mingled  with  the  dreams  of  Bernard 
Langdon,  as  he  slept  the  night  after  meeting  the  strange 
horseman.  In  the  morning  he  happened  to  be  a  little  late 
in  entering  the  schoolroom.  There  was  something  between 
the  leaves  of  the  Virgil  which  lay  upon  his  desk.  He  opened 
it  and  saw  a  freshly  gathered  mountain-flower.  He  looked  at 


130  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

Elsie,  instinctively,  involuntarily.  She  had  another  such 
flower  on  her  breast. 

A  young  girl's  graceful  compliment, — that  is  all, — no 
doubt, — no  doubt.  It  is  odd  that  the  flower  should  have 
happened  to  be  laid  between  the  leaves  of  the  Fourth  Book 
of  the  /Eneid  and  at  this  line, — 

"  Incipit  effari,  mediaque  in  voce  resistit." 

A  remembrance  of  ancient  superstition  flashed  through  the 
master's  mind,  and  he  determined  to  try  the  Sortes  Vir- 
gilianae.  He  shut  the  volume,  and  opened  it  again  at  a  ven 
ture. — The  story  of  Laocoon ! 

He  read,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  unwilling  fascination, 
from  "  Horresco  referens "  to  "  Bis  medium  amplexi,"  and 
flung  the  book  from  him,  as  if  its  leaves  had  been  steeped  in 
the  subtle  poisons  that  princes  die  of. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CURIOSITY. 

People  will  talk.  Caiscun  lo  dice  is  a  tune  that  is  played 
oftener  than  the  national  air  of  this  country  or  any  other. 

"  That's  what  they  say.  Means  to  marry  her,  if  she  is  his 
cousin.  Got  money  himself, — that's  the  story, — but  wants 
to  come  and  live  in  the  old  place,  and  get  the  Dudley  prop 
erty  by-and-by." — "  Mother's  folks  was  wealthy." — "  Twenty- 
three  to  twenty-five  years  old." — "  He  a'n't  more'n  twenty,  or 
twenty-one  at  the  outside," — "  Looks  as  if  he  knew  too  much 
to  be  only  twenty  year  old." — ft  Guess  he's  been  through  the 
mill, — don't  look  so  green,  anyhow, — 'hey?  Did  y'  ever 
mind  that  cut  over  his  left  eyebrow  ? " 

So  they  gossiped  in  Rockland.  The  young  fellows  could 
make  nothing  of  Dick  Venner.  He  was  shy  and  proud  with 
the  few  who  made  advances  to  him.  The  young  ladies  called 
him  handsome  and  romantic,  but  he  looked  at  them  like  a 
many-tailed  pacha  who  was  in  the  habit  of  ordering  his  wives 
by  the  dozen. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  young  man  over  there  at  the 
Venners'  ? "  said  Miss  Arabella  Thornton  to  her  father. 

"  Handsome,"  said  the  Judge,  "  but  dangerous-looking. 
His  face  is  indictable  at  common  law.  Do  you  know,  my 
dear,  I  think  there  is  a  blank  at  the  Sheriff's  office,  with  a 
place  for  his  name  in  it  ? " 

The  Judge  paused  and  looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just 
listened  to  the  verdict  of  the  jury  and  was  going  to  pro 
nounce  sentence. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  against  him  ? "  said  the 
Judge's  daughter. 

"  Nothing.  But  I  don't  like  these  mixed  bloods  and  half- 
told  stories.  Besides,  I  have  seen  a  good  many  desperate 
fellows  at  the  bar,  and  I  have  a  fancy  they  all  have  a  look 
belonging  to  them.  The  worst  one  I  ever  sentenced  looked  a 

131 


132  ELSIE    VENNER. 

good  deal  like  this  fellow.     A  wicked  mouth.     All  our  other 
features  are  made  for  us ;  but  a  man  makes  his  own  mouth," 

"  Who  was  the  person  you  sentenced  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  young  fellow  that  undertook  to  garrote  a  man 
who  had  won  his  money  at  cards.  The  same""slender  shape, 
the  same  cunning,  fierce  look,  smoothed  over  with  a  plausible 
air.  Depend  upon  it,  there  is  an  expression  in  all  the  sort 
of  people  who  live  by  their  wits  when  they  can,  and  by  worse 
weapons  when  their  wits  fail  them,  that  we  old  law-doctors 
know  just  as  well  as  the  medical  counselors~Enow  the  marks 
of  disease  in  a  man's  face.  Dr.  Kittredge  looks  at  a  man 
and  says  he  is  going  to  die ;  I  look  at  another  man  and  say  he 
is  going  to  be  hanged,  if  nothing  happens.  I  don't  say  so 
of  this  one,  but  I  don't  like  his  looks.  I  wonder  Dudley 
Venner  takes  to  him  so  kindly." 

"It's  all  for  Elsie's  sake,"  said  Miss  Thornton;  "I  feel 
quite  sure  of  that.  He  never  does  anything  that  is  not 
meant  for  her  in  some  way.  I  suppose  it  amuses  her  to  have 
her  cousin  about  the  house.  She  rides  a  good  deal  since 
he  has  been  here.  Have  you  seen  them  galloping  about  to 
gether?  He  looks  like  my  idea  of  a  Spanish  bandit  on  that 
wild  horse  of  his." 

"  Possibly  he  has  been  one, — or  is  one,"  said  the  Judge, — 
smiling  as  men  smile  whose  lips  have  often  been  freighted 
with  the  life  and  death  of  their  fellow-creatures.  "  I  met 
them  riding  the  other  day.  Perhaps  Dudley  is  right,  if  it 
pleases  her  to  have  a  companion.  What  will  happen,  though, 
if  he  makes  love  to  her?  Will  Elsie  be  easily  taken  with 
such  a  fellow  ?  You  young  folks  are  supposed  to  know  more 
about  these  matters  than  we  middle-aged  people." 

"  Nobody  can  tell.  Elsie  is  not  like  anybody  else.  The 
girls  who  have  seen  most  of  her  think  she  hates  men,  all  but 
1  Dudley,'  as  she  calls  her  father.  Some  of  them  doubt 
whether  she  loves  him.  They  doubt  whether  she  can  love 
anything  human,  except  perhaps  the  old  black  woman  who 
has  taken  care  of  her  since  she  was  a  baby.  The  village 
people  have  the  strangest  stories  about  her,  you  know  what 
they  call  her?" 

She  whispered  three  words  in  her  father's  ear.  The 
Judge  changed  color  as  she  spoke,  sighed  deeply,  and  was 
silent  as  if  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I  remember  her  mother,"  he  said,  "  so  well !     A  sweeter 


CURIOSITY.  133 

creature  never  lived.  Elsie  has  something-  of  her  in  her 
look,  but  those  are  not  her  mother's  eyes.  They  were  dark, 
but  soft,  as  in  all  I  ever  saw  of  her  race.  Her  father's  are 
dark  too,  but  mild,  and  even  tender,  I  should  say.  I  don't 
know  what  there  is  about  Elsie's, — but  do  you  know,  my  ( 
dear,  I  find  myself  curiously  influenced  by  them?  I  have 
had  to  face  a  good  many  sharp  eyes  and  hard  ones, — murder 
ers'  eyes  and  pirates', — men  who  had  to  be  watched  in  the 
bar,  where  they  stood  on  trial,  for  fear  they  should  spring 
on  the  prosecuting  officers  like  tigers, — but  I  never  saw  such 
eyes  as  Elsie's;  and  yet  they  have  a  kind  of  drawing  virtue 
or  power  about  them, — I  don't  know  what  else  to  call  it: 
have  you  never  observed  this  ? " 

His  daughter  smiled  in  her  turn. 

"  Never  observed  it  ?  Why,  of  course,  nobody  could  be 
with  Elsie  Venner  and  not  observe  it.  There  are  a  good 
many  other  strange  things  about  her:  did  you  ever  notice 
how  she  dresses  ?  " 

"  Why,  handsomely  enough,  I  should  think,"  the  Judge 
answered.  "  I  suppose  she  dresses  as  she  likes,  and  sends 
to  the  city  for  what  she  wants.  What  do  you  mean  in  par 
ticular?  We  men  notice  effects  in  dress,  but  not  much  in 
detail." 

"  You  never  noticed  the  colors  and  patterns  of  her  dresses  ? 
You  never  remarked  anything  curious  about  her  ornaments  ? 
Well !  I  don't  believe  you  men  know,  half  the  time,  whether 
a  lady  wears  a  ninepenny  collar  or  a  thread-lace  cape  worth 
a  thousand  dollars.  I  don't  believe  you  know  a  silk  dress 
from  a  bombazine  one.  I  don't  believe  you  can  tell  whether 
a  woman  is  in  black  or  in  colors,  unless  you  happen  to  know 
she  is  a  widow.  Elsie  Venner  has  a  strange  taste  in  dress, 
let  me  tell  you.  She  sends  for  the  oddest  patterns  of  stuffs, 
and  picks  out  the  most  curious  things  at  the  jeweler's,  when 
ever  she  goes  to  town  with  her  father.  They  say  the  old 
Doctor  tells  her  father  to  let  her  have  her  way  about  all 
such  matters.  Afraid  of  her  mind,  if  she  is  contradicted,  I 
suppose. — You've  heard  about  her  going  to  school  at  that 
place, — the  '  Institoot,'  as  those  people  call  it  ?  They  say 
she's  bright  enough  in  her  way, — has  studied  at  home,  you 
know,  with  her  father  a  good  deal, — knows  some  modern  lan 
guages  and  Latin,  I  believe:  at  any  rate,  she  would  have  it 
so, — she  must  go  to  the  '  Institoot.'  They  have  a  very  good 


134  ELSIE    VEJSTNER. 

female  teacher  there,  I  hear ;  and  the  new  master,  that  young 
Mr.  Langdon,  looks  and  talks  like  a  well-educated  young  man. 
I  wonder  what  they'll  make  of  Elsie,  between  them !  " 

So  they  talked  at  the  Judge's  in  the  calm,  judicial-looking 
mansion-house,  in  the  grave,  still  library,  with  the  troops  of 
wan-hued  law-books  staring  blindly  out  of  their  titles  at 
them  as  they  talked,  like  the  ghosts  of  dead  attorneys  fixed 
motionless  and  speechless,  each  with  a  thin,  golden  film  over 
his  unwinking  eyes. 

In  the  mean  time  everything  went  on  quietly  enough  after 
Cousin  Richard's  return.  A  man  of  sense, — that  is,  a  man 
who  knows  perfectly  well  that  a  cool  head  is  worth  a  dozen 
warm  hearts  in  carrying  the  fortress  of  a  woman's  affections, 
(not  yours,  "  Astarte,"  nor  yours,  "  Viola,") — who  knows  that 
men  are  rejected  by  women  every  day  because  they,  the  men, 
love  them,  and  are  accepted  every  day  because  they  do  not, 
and  therefore  can  study  the  arts  of  pleasing, — a  man  of 
sense,  when  he  finds  he  has  established  his  second  parallel 
too  soon,  retires  quietly  to  his  first,  and  begins  working  on 
his  covered  ways  again.  [The  whole  art  of  love  may  be  read 
in  any  Encyclopsedia  under  the  title  Fortification,  where  the 
terms  just  used  are  explained.]  After  the  little  adventure 
of  the  necklace,  Dick  retreated  at  once  to  his  first  parallel. 
Elsie  loved  riding, — and  would  go  off  with  him  on  a  gallop 
now  and  then.  He  was  master  of  all  those  strange  Indian 
horseback-feats  which  shame  the  tricks  of  the  circus- 
riders,  and  used  to  astonish  and  almost  amuse  her  some 
times  by  disappearing  from  his  saddle,  like  a  phantom  horse 
man,  lying  flat  against  the  side  of  the  bounding  crea 
ture  that  bore  him,  as  if  he  were  a  hunting  leopard  with  his 
claws  in  the  horse's  flank  and  flattening  himself  out  against 
his  heaving  ribs.  Elsie  knew  a  little  Spanish  too,  which  she 
had  learned  from  the  young  person  who  had  taught  her 
dancing,  and  Dick  enlarged  her  vocabulary  with  a  few  soft 
phrases,  and  would  sing  her  a  song  sometimes,  touching  the 
air  upon  an  ancient-looking  guitar  they  had  found  with  the 
ghostly  things  in  the  garret, — a  quaint  old  instrument, 
marked  E.  M.  on  the  back,  and  supposed  to  have  belonged  to 
a  certain  Elizabeth  Mascarene,  before  mentioned  in  connec 
tion  with  a  work  of  art, — a  fair,  dowerless  lady,  who  smiled 
and  sung  and  faded  away,  unwedded,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
as  dowerless  ladies,  not  a  few,  are  smiling  and  singing  and 


CURIOSITY.  135 

fading  now, — God  grant  each  of  them  His  love, — and  one 
human  heart  as  its  interpreter! 

As  for  school,  Elsie  went  or  stayed  away  as  she  liked. 
Sometimes,  when  they  thought  she  was  at  her  desk  in  the 
great  schoolroom,  she  would  be  on  The  Mountain, — alone  al 
ways.  Dick  wanted  to  go  with  her,  but  she  would  never  let 
him.  Once,  when  she  had  followed  the  zigzag  path  a  little 
way  up,  she  looked  back  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  follow 
ing  her.  She  turned  and  passed  him  without  a  word,  but 
giving  him  a  look  which  seemed  to  make  the  scars  on  his 
wrists  tingle,  went  to  her  room,  where  she  locked  herself  up, 
and  did  not  come  out  again  until  evening, — old  Sophy  hav 
ing  brought  her  food,  and  set  it  down,  not  speaking,  but 
looking  into  her  eyes  inquiringly,  like  a  dumb  beast  trying 
to  feel  out  his  master's  will  in  his  face.  The  evening  was  ... 
clear  and  the  moon  shining.  As  Dick  sat  at  his  chamber- 
window,  looking  at  the  mountain-side,  he  saw  a  gray-dressed 
figure  flit  between  the  trees  and  steal  along  the  narrow  path 
which  led  upward.  Elsie's  pillow  was  unpressed  that  night, 
but  she  had  not  been  missed  by  the  household, — for  Dick 
knew  enough  to  keep  his  own  counsel.  The  next  morning 
she  avoided  him  and  went  off  early  to  school.  It  was  the 
same  morning  that  the  young  master  found  the  flower  be 
tween  the  leaves  of  his  Virgil. 

The  girl  got  over  her  angry  fit,  and  was  pleasant  enough 
with  her  cousin  for  a  few  days  after  this;  but  she  shunned 
rather  than  sought  him.  She  had  taken  a  new  interest  in 
her  books,  and  especially  in  certain  poetical  readings  which 
the  master  conducted  with  the  elder  scholars.  This  gave 
Master  Langdon  a  good  chance  to  study  her  ways  when  her 
eye  was  on  her  book,  to  notice  the  inflections  of  her  voice, 
to  watch  for  any  expression  of  her  sentiments ;  for,  to  tell 
the  truth,  he  had  a  kind  of  fear  that  the  girl  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  him,  and,  though  she  interested  him,  he  did  notyV" 
wish  to  study  her  heart  from  the  inside. 

The  more  he  saw  her,  the  more  the  sadness  of  her  beauty 
wrought  upon  him.  She  looked  as  if  she  might  hate,  but 
could  not  love.  She  hardly  smiled  at  anything,  spoke  rarely, 
but  seemed  to  feel  that  her  natural  power  of  expression  lay 
all  in  her  bright  eyes,  the  force  of  which  so  many  had  felt, 
but  none  perhaps  had  tried  to  explain  to  themselves.  A  per 
son  accustomed  to  watch  the  faces  of  those  who  were  ailing 


136  ELSIE   VENKEK. 

,  in  body  or  mind,  and  to  search  in  every  line  and  tint  for 
some  underlying  source  of  disorder,  could  hardly  help  an 
alyzing  the  impression  such  a  face  produced  upon  him.  The 
light  of  those  beautiful  eyes  was  like  the  luster  of  ice;  in 
all  her  features  there  was  nothing  of  that  human  warmth 
which  shows  that  sympathy  has  reached  the  soul  beneath  the 
mask  of  flesh  it  wears.  The  look  was  that  of  remoteness,  of 
utter  isolation.  There  was  in  its  stony  apathy,  it  seemed  to 
him,  the  pathos  which  we  find  in  the  blind  who  show  no  film 
or  speck  over  the  organs  of  sight;  for  Nature  had  meant 
her  to  be  lovely,  and  left  out  nothing  but  love.  And  yet  the 
master  could  not  help  feeling  that  some  instinct  was  work 
ing  in  this  girl  which  was  in  some  way  leading  her  to  seek 
his  presence.  She  did  not  lift  her  glittering  eyes  upon  him 
at  the  first.  It  seemed  strange  that  she  did  not,  for  they 
were  surely  her  natural  weapons  of  conquest.  Her  color 
did  not  come  and  go  like  that  of  young  girls  under  excite 
ment.  She  had  a  clear  brunette  complexion,  a  little  sun- 
touched,  it  may  be, — for  the  master  noticed  once,  when  her 
necklace  was  slightly  displaced,  that  a  faint  ring  or  band  of 
a  little  lighter  shade  than  the  rest  of  the  surface  encircled 
her  neck.  What  was  the  slight  peculiarity  of  her  enuncia 
tion,  when  she  read?  Not  a  lisp  certainly,  but  the  least 
possible  imperfection  in  articulating  some  of  the  lingual 
sounds, — just  enough  to  be  noticed  at  first,  and  quite  for 
gotten  after  being  a  few  times  heard. 

Not  a  word  about  the  flower  on  either  side.  It  was  not 
uncommon  for  the  schoolgirls  to  leave  a  rose  or  a  pink  or 
wild  flower  on  the  teacher's  desk.  Finding  it  in  the  Virgil  was 
nothing,  after  all ;  it  was  a  little  delicate  flower,  which  looked 
as  if  it  were  made  to  press,  and  it  was  probably  shut  in  by 
accident  at  the  particular  place  where  he  found  it.  He  took 
it  into  his  head  to  examine  it  in  a  botanical  point  of  view. 
He  found  it  was  not  common, — that  it  grew  only  in  certain 
localities, — and  that  one  of  these  was  among  the  rocks  of  the 
eastern  spur  of  The  Mountain. 

It  happened  to  come  into  his  head  how  the  Swiss  youth 
climbed  the  sides  of  the  Alps  to  find  the  flower  called  the 
JEdelweiss  for  the  maidens  whom  they  wish  to  please.  It  is  a 
pretty  fancy,  that  of  scaling  some  dangerous  height  before 
the  dawn,  so  as  to  gather  the  flower  in  its  freshness,  that  the 
favored  maiden  may  wear  it  to  church  on  Sunday  morning, 


CURIOSITY.  137 

a  proof  at  once  of  her  lover's  devotion  and  his  courage.  Mr. 
Bernard  determined  to  explore  the  region  where  this  flower 
was  said  to  grow,  that  he  might  see  where  the  wild  girl 
sought  the  blossoms  of  which  Nature  was  so  jealous. 

It  was  a  warm,  fair  Saturday  afternoon  that  he  under 
took  his  land-voyage  of  discovery.  He  had  more  curiosity, 
it  may  be,  than  he  would  have  owned;  for  he  had  heard  of 
the  girl's  wandering  habits,  and  the  guesses  about  her  sylvan 
haunts,  and  was  thinking  what  the  chances  were  that  he 
should  meet  her  in  some  strange  place,  or  come  upon  traces 
of  her  which  would  tell  secrets  she  would  not  care  to  have 
known. 

The  woods  are  all  alive  to  one  who  walks  through  them 
with  his  mind  in  an  excited  state,  and  his  eyes  and  ears 
wide  open.  The  trees  are  always  talking,  not  merely  whisper 
ing  with  their  leaves,  (for  every  tree  talks  to  itself  in  that 
way,  even  when  it  stands  alone  in  the  middle  of  a  pasture,) 
but  grating  their  boughs  against  each  other,  as  old  horn- 
handed  farmers  press  their  dry,  rustling  palms  together,  drop 
ping  a  nut  or  a  leaf  or  a  twig,  clicking  to  the  tap  of  a  wood 
pecker,  or  rustling  as  a  squirrel  flashes  along  a  branch.  It  was 
now  the  season  of  singing-birds,  and  the  woods  were  haunted 
with  mysterious,  tender  music.  The  voices  of  the  birds  which 
love  the  deeper shade® of  the  forest  are  sadder  than  those  of  the 
open  fields :  these  are  the  nuns  who  have  taken  the  veil,  the 
hermits  that  have  hidden  themselves  away  from  the  world 
and  tell  their  griefs  to  the  infinite  listening  Silences  of  the 
wilderness, — for  the  one  deep  inner  silence  that  Nature 
breaks  with  her  fitful  superficial  sounds  becomes  multiplied 
as  the  image  of  a  star  in  ruffled  waters.  Strange!  The 
woods  at  first  convey  the  impression  of  profound  repose,  and 
yet,  if  you  watch  their  ways  with  open  ear,  you  find  the  life 
which  is  in  them  is  restless  and  nervous  as  that  of  a  woman : 
the  little  twigs  are  crossing  and  twining  and  separating  like 
slender  fingers  that  cannot  be  still;  the  stray  leaf  is  to  be 
flattened  into  its  place  like  a  truant  curl ;  the  limbs  sway  and 
twist,  impatient  of  their  constrained  attitude;  and  the 
rounded  masses  of  foliage  swell  upward  and  subside  from 
time 'to  time  with  long  soft  sighs,  and,  it  may  be,  the  falling 
of  a  few  rain-drops  which  had  lain  hidden  among  the  deeper 
shadows.  I  pray  you,  notice,  in  the  sweet  summer  days 
which  will  soon  see  you  among  the  mountains,  this  inward 


138  ELSIE    VENDER." 

tranquillity  that  belongs  to  the  heart  of  the  woodland,  with 
this  nervousness,  for  I  do  not  know  what  else  to  call  it,  of 
outer  movement.  One  would  say,  that  Nature,  like  untrained 
persons,  could  not  sit  still  without  nestling  about  or  doing 
something  with  her  limbs  or  features,  and  that  high  breed 
ing  was  only  to  be  looked  for  in  trim  gardens,  where  the  soul 
of  the  trees  is  ill  at  ease  perhaps,  but  their  manners  are 
unexceptionable,  and  the  rustling  branch  or  leaf  falling  out 
of  season  is  an  indecorum.  The  real  forest  is  hardly  still 
except  in  the  Indian  summer;  then  there  is  death  in  the 
house,  and  they  are  waiting  for  the  sharp  shrunken  months 
to  come  with  white  raiment  for  the  summer's  burial. 

There  were  many  hemlocks  in  this  neighborhood,  the 
grandest  and  most  solemn  of  all  the  forest-trees  in  the  moun 
tain  regions.  Up  to  a  certain  period  of  growth  they  are  emi 
nently  beautiful,  their  boughs  disposed  in  the  most  graceful 
pagoda-like  series  of  close  terraces,  thick  and  dark  with 
green  crystalline  leaflets.  In  spring  the  tender  shoots  come 
out  of  a  paler  green,  finger-like,  as  if  they  were  pointing  to 
the  violets  at  their  feet.  But  when  the  trees  have  grown  old, 
and  their  rough  boles  measure  a  yard  and  more  through 
their  diameter,  they  are  no  longer  beautiful,  but  they  have 
a  sad  solemnity  all  their  own,  too  full  of  meaning  to  require 
the  heart's  comment  to  be  framed  in  words.  Below,  all  their 
earthward-looking  branches  are  sapless  and  shattered,  splint 
ered  by  the  weight  of  many  winters'  snows;  above,  they  are 
still  green  and  full  of  life,  but  their  summits  overtop  all  the 
deciduous  trees  around  them,  and  in  their  companionship 
with  heaven  they  are  alone.  On  these  the  lightning  loves  to 
fall.  One  such  Mr.  Bernard  saw, — or  rather,  what  had  been 
one  such;  for  the  bolt  had  torn  the  tree  like  an  explosion 
from  within,  and  the  ground  was  strewed  all  around  the 
broken  stump  with  flakes  of  rough  bark  and  strips  and  chips 
of  shivered  wood,  into  which  the  old  tree  had  been  rent  by 
the  bursting  rocket  from  the  thunder-cloud. 

The  master  had  struck  up  The  Mountain  obliquely 

from  the  western  side  of  the  Dudley  mansion-house.  In 
this  way  he  ascended  until  he  reached  a  point  many  hundred 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  plain,  and  commanding  all  the 
country  beneath  and  around.  Almost  at  his  feet  he  saw  the 
mansion-house,  the  chimney  standing  out  of  the  middle  of 
the  roof,  or  rather,  like  a  black  square  hole  in  it, — the  trees 


CUKIOSITY.  139 

almost  directly  over  their  stems,  the  fences  as  lines,  the 
whole  nearly  as  an  architect  would  draw  a  ground-plan  of 
the  house  and  the  inclosure  around  it.  It  frightened  him 
to  see  how  the  huge  masses  of  rock  and  old  forest-growths 
hung  over  the  home  below.  As  he  descended  a  little  and 
drew  near  the  ledge  of  evil  name,  he  was  struck  with  the 
appearance  of  a  long  narrow  fissure  that  ran  parallel  with 
it  arid  above  it  for  many  rods,  not  seemingly  of  very  old 
standing, — for  there  were  many  fibers  of  roots  which  had  evi 
dently  been  snapped  asunder  when  the  rent  took  place,  and 
some  of  which  were  still  succulent  in  both  separated  portions. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  made  up  his  mind,  when  he  set  forth,  not  to 
come  back  before  he  had  examined  the  dreaded  ledge.  He  had 
half  persuaded  himself  that  it  was  scientific  curiosity.  He 
wished  to  examine  the  rocks,  to  see  what  flowers  grew  there, 
and  perhaps  to  pick  up  an  adventure  in  the  zoological  line; 
for  he  had  on  a  pair  of  high,  stout  boots,  and  he  carried  a 
stick  in  his  hand,  which  was  forked  at  one  extremity  so  as 
to  be  very  convenient  to  hold  down  a  jcrptalus  with,  if  he 
should  happen  to  encounter  one.  He  knew  the  aspect  of 
the  ledge  from  a  distance;  for  its  bald  and  leprous-looking 
declivities  stood  out  in  their  nakedness  from  the  wooded 
sides  of  The  Mountain,  when  this  was  viewed  from  certain 
points  of  the  vilage.  But  the  nearer  aspect  of  the  blasted 
region  had  something  frightful  in  it.  The  cliffs  were  water- 
worn,  as  if  they  had  been  gnawed  for  thousands  of  years  by 
hungry  waves.  In  some  places  they  overhung  their  base 
so  as  to  look  like  leaning  towers  which  might  topple  over  at 
any  minute.  In  other  parts  they  were  scooped  into  niches 
or  caverns.  Here  and  there  they  were  cracked  in  deep  fis 
sures,  some  of  them  of  such  width  that  one  might  enter  them, 
if  he  cared  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  the  regular  tenants, 
who  might  treat  him  as  an  intruder. 

Parts  of  the  ledge  were  cloven  perpendicularly,  with 
nothing  but  cracks  or  slightly  projecting  edges  in  which 
or  on  which  a  foot  could  find  hold.  High  up  on  one  of  these 
precipitous  walls  of  rock  he  saw  some  tufts  of  flowers,  and 
knew  them  at  once  for  the  same  that  he  had  found  between 
the  leaves  of  his  Virgil.  Not  there,  surely!  No  woman 
would  have  clung  against  that  steep,  rough  parapet  to 
gather  an  idle  blossom.  And  yet  the  master  looked  round 
everywhere,  and  even  up  the  side  of  that  rock,  to  see  if  there 


140  ELSIE   VENNER. 

were  no  signs  of  a  woman's  footstep.  He  peered  about  cu 
riously,  as  if  his  eye  might  fall  on  some  of  those  fragments 
of  dress  which  women  leave  after  them,  whenever  they  run 
against  each  other  or  against  anything  else, — in  crowded 
ballrooms,  in  the  brushwood  after  picnics,  on  the  fences 
after  rambles,  scattered  round  over  every  place  which  has 
witnessed  an  act  of  violence,  where  rude  hands  have  been 
laid  upon  them.  Nothing.  Stop,  though,  one  moment. 
That  stone  is  smooth  and  polished,  as  if  it  had  been  some 
what  worn  by  the  pressure  of  human  feet.  There  is  one  twig 
broken  among  the  stems  of  that  clump  of  shrubs.  He  put 
his  foot  upon  the  stone  and  took  hold  of  the  close-clinging 
shrub.  In  this  way  he  turned  a  sharp  angle  of  the  rock  and 
found  himself  on  a  natural  platform,  which  lay  in  front  of 
one  of  the  wider  fissures, — whether  the  mouth  of  a  cavern 
or  not  he  could  not  yet  tell.  A  flat  stone  made  an  easy  seat, 
upon  which  he  sat  down,  as  he  was  very  glad  to  do,  and 
looked  mechanically  about  him.  A  small  fragment  splintered 
from  the  rock  was  at  his  feet.  He  took  it  and  threw  it  down 
the  declivity  a  little  below  where  he  sat.  He  looked  about 
for  a  stem  or  a  straw  of  some  kind  to  bite  upon, — a  country- 
instinct, — relic,  no  doubt,  of  the  old  vegetable-feeding  habits 
of  Eden.  Is  that  a  stem  or  a  straw?  He  picked  it  up.  It 
was  a  hair-pin. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Langdon  had  a  strange  sort  of  thrill 
shoot  through  him  at  the  sight  of  this  harmless  little  imple 
ment  would  be  a  statement  not  at  variance  with  the  fact 
of  the  case.  That  smooth  stone  had  been  often  trodden,  and 
by  what  foot  he  could  not  doubt.  He  rose  up  from  his  seat 
to  look  round  for  other  signs  of  a  woman's  visits.  What  if 
there  is  a  cavern  here,  where  she  has  a  retreat,  fitted  up,  per 
haps,  as  anchorites  fitted  their  cells, — nay,  it  may  be,  car 
peted  and  mirrored,  and  with  one  of  those  tiger-skins  for 
a  couch,  such  as  they  say  the  girl  loves  to  lie  on?  Let  us 
look,  at  any  rate. 

Mr.  Bernard  walked  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  or  fissure 
and  looked  into  it.  His  look  was  met  by  the  glitter  of  two 
diamond  eyes,  small,  sharp,  cold,  shining  out  of  the  dark 
ness,  but  gliding  with  a  smooth,  steady  motion  towards  the 
light,  and  himself.  He  stood  fixed,  struck  dumb,  staring 
back  into  them  with  dilating  pupils  and  sudden  numbness 
of  fear  that  cannot  move,  as  in  the  terror  of  dreams.  The 


CUKIOSITY.  141 

two  sparks  of  light  came  forward  until  they  grew  to  circles 
of  flame,  and  all  at  once  lifted  themselves  up  as  if  in  angry 
surprise.  Then  for  the  first  time  thrilled  in  Mr.  Bernard's 
ears  the  dreadful  sound  that  nothing  which  breathes,  be  it 
man  or  brute,  can  hear  unmoved, — the  long,  loud,  stinging 
whirr,  as  the  huge,  thick-bodied  reptile  shook  his  many- 
jointed  rattle  and  adjusted  his  loops  for  the  fatal  stroke. 
His  eyes  were  drawn  as  with  magnets  toward  the  circles  of 
flame.  His  ears  rung  as  in  the  overture  to  the  swooning 
dream  of  chloroform.  Nature  was  before  man  with  her 
anesthetics :  the  cat's  first  shake  stupefies  the  mouse;  the 
lion's  first  shake  deadens  the  man's  fear  and  feeling;  and 
the  crotalus  paralyzes  before  he  strikes.  He  waited  as  in 
a  trance, — waited  as  one  that  longs  to  have  the  blow  fall, 
and  all  over,  as  the  man  who  shall  be  in  two  pieces  in  a  sec 
ond  waits  for  the  ax  to  drop.  But  while  he  looked  straight 
into  the  flaming  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  losing 
their  light  and  terror,  that  they  were  growing  tame  and  dull ; 
the  charm  was  dissolving,  the  numbness  was  passing  away, 
he  could  move  once  more.  He  heard  a  light  breathing  close 
to  his  ear,  and,  half  turning,  saw  the  face  of  Elsie  Venner, 
looking  motionless  into  the  reptile's  eyes,  which  had  shrunk 
and  faded  under  the  stronger  enchantment  of  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FAMILY  SECRETS. 

It  was  commonly  understood  in  the  town  of  Rockland 
that  Dudley  Venner  had  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with 
that  daughter  of  his,  so  handsome,  yet  so  peculiar,  about 
whom  there  were  so  many  strange  stories.  There  was  no 
end  to  the  tales  which  were  told  of  her  extraordinary  doings. 
Yet  her  name  was  never  coupled  with  that  of  any  youth  or 
man,  until  this  cousin  had  provoked  remark  by  his  visit ; 
and  even  then  it  was  oftener  in  the  shape  of  wondering 
conjectures  whether  he  would  dare  to  make  love  to  her,  than 
in  any  pretended  knowledge  of  their  relations  to  each  other, 
that  the  public  tongue  exercised  its  village-prerogative  of 
tattle. 

The  more  common  version  of  the  trouble  at  the  mansion- 
house  was  this: — Elsie  was  not  exactly  in  her  right  mind. 
Her  temper  was  singular,  her  tastes  were  anomalous,  her 
habits  were  lawless,  her  antipathies  were  many  and  intense, 
and  she  was  liable  to  explosions  of  ungovernable  anger. 
Some  said  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  At  nearly  fifteen 
years  old,  when  she  was  growing  fast,  and  in  an  irritable 
state  of  mind  and  body,  she  had  had  a  governess  placed  over 
her  for  whom  she  had  conceived  an  aversion.  It  was  whis 
pered  among  a  few  who  knew  more  of  the  family  secrets 
than  others,  that,  worried  and  exasperated  by  the  presence 
and  jealous  oversight  of  this  person,  Elsie  had  attempted  to 
get  finally  rid  of  her  by  unlawful  means,  such  as  young  girls 
have  been  known  to  employ  in  their  straits,  and  to  which 
the  sex  at  all  ages  has  a  certain  instinctive  tendency,  in  pref 
erence  to  more  palpable  instruments  for  the  righting  of  its 
wrongs.  At  any  rate  this  governess  had  been  taken  sud 
denly  ill,  and  the  Doctor  had  been  sent  for  at  midnight.  Old 
Sophy  had  taken  her  master  into  a  room  apart,  and  said 
a  few  words  to  him  which  turned  him  as  white  as  a  sheet. 
As  soon  as  he  recovered  himself,  he  sent  Sophy  out,  called 

142 


FAMILY    SECKETS.  143 

in  the  old  Doctor,  and  gave  him  some  few  hints,  on  which 
he  acted  at  once,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
patient  out  of  danger  before  he  left  in  the  morning.  It  is 
proper  to  say,  that,  during  the  following  days,  the  most 
thorough  search  was  made  in  every  nook  and  cranny  of  those 
parts  of  the  house  which  Elsie  chiefly  haunted,  but  nothing 
was  found  which  might  be  accused  of  having  been  the  in 
tentional  cause  of  the  probably  accidental  sudden  illness  of 
the  governess.  From  this  time  forward  her  father  was  never 
easy.  Should  he  keep  her  apart,  or  shut  her  up,  for  fear 
of  risk  to  others,  and  so  lose  every  chance  of  restoring  her 
mind  to  its  healthy  tone  by  kindly  influences  and  intercourse 
with  wholesome  natures  ?  There  was  no  proof,  only  presump 
tion,  as  to  the  agency  of  Elsie  in  the  matter  referred  to. 
But  the  doubt  was  worse,  perhaps,  than  certainty  would  have 
been, — -for  then  he  would  have  known  what  to  do. 

He  took  the  old  Doctor  as  his  adviser.  The  shrewd  old 
man  listened  to  the  father's  story,  his  explanations  of  possi 
bilities,  of  probabilities,  of  dangers,  of  hopes.  When  he  had 
got  through,  the  Doctor  looked  him  in  the  face  steadily,  as 
if  he  were  saying,  Is  that  all? 

The  father's  eyes  fell.  This  was  not  all.  There  was  some 
thing  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul  which  he  could  not  bear  to 
speak  of, — nay,  which,  as  often  as  it  reared  itself  through 
the  dark  waves  of  unworded  consciousness  into  the  breathing 
air  of  thought,  he  trod  down  as  the  ruined  angels  tread  down 
a  lost  soul  trying  to  come  up  out  of  the  seething  sea  of  tor 
ture.  Only  this  one  daughter !  No !  God  never  would  have 
ordained  such  a  thing.  There  was  nothing  ever  heard  of 
like  it;  it  could  not  be;  she  was  ill, — she  would  outgrow 
all  these  singularities ;  he  had  had  an  aunt  who  was  peculiar ; 
he  had  heard  that  hysteric  girls  showed  the  strangest  forms 
of  moral  obliquity  for  a  time,  but  came  right  at  last.  She"? 
would  change  all  at  once,  when  her  health  got  more  firmly  j 
settled  in  the  course  of  her  growth.  Are  there  not  rough" 
buds  that  open  into  sweet  flowers?  Are  there  not  fruits, 
which,  while  unripe,  are  not  to  be  tasted  or  endured,  which 
mature  into  the  richest  taste  and  fragrance?  In  God's  good 
time  she  would  come  to  her  true  nature;  her  eyes  would 
lose  that  frightful,  cold  glitter;  her  lips  would  not  feel  so 
cold  when  she  pressed  them  against  his  cheek ;  and  that  faint 
birth-mark,  her  mother  swooned  when  she  first  saw,  would 


144  ELSIE    VENNER. 

fade  wholly  out, — it  was  less  marked,  surely,  now  than  it 
used  to  be! 

So  Dudley  Yenner  felt,  and  would  have  thought,  if  he 
Jiad  let  his  thoughts  breathe  the  air  of  his  soul.  But  the 
Doctor  read  through  words  and  thoughts  and  all  into  the 
father's  consciousness.  There  are  states  of  mind  which  may 
be  shared  by  two  persons  in  presence  of  each  other,  which 
remain  not  only  unworded,  but  unthoughted,  if  such  a  word 
may  be  coined  for  our  special  need.  Such  a  mutually  inter 
penetrative  consciousness  there  was  between  the  father  and 
the  old  physician.  By  a  common  impulse,  both  of  them  rose 
in  a  mechanical  way  and  went  to  the  western  window,  where 
each  started,  as  he  saw  the  other's  look  directed  towards  the 
white  stone  which  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  small  plot  of 
green  turf. 

The  Doctor  had,  for  a  moment,  forgotten  himself,  but  he 
looked  up  at  the  clouds,  which  were  angry,  and  said,  as  if 
speaking  of  the  weather,  "  It  is  dark  now,  but  we  hope  it  will 
clear  up  by-and-by.  There  are  a  great  many  more  clouds 
than  rains,  and  more  rains  than  strokes  of  lightning,  and 
more  strokes  of  lightning  than  there  are  people,  killed.  We 
must  let  this  girl  of  ours  have  her  way,  as  far  as  it  is  safe. 
Send  away  this  woman  she  hates,  quietly.  Get  her  a  for 
eigner  for  a  governess,  if  you  can, — one  that  can  dance  and 
sing  and  will  teach  her.  In  the  house  old  Sophy  will  watch 
her  best.  Out  of  it  you  must  trust  her,  I  am  afraid, — for  she 
will  not  be  followed  round,  and  she  is  in  less  danger  than 
you  think.  If  she  wanders  at  night,  find  her,  if  you  can ;  the 
woods  are  not  absolutely  safe.  If  she  will  be  friendly  with 
any  young  people,  have  them  to  see  her, — young  men  espe 
cially.  She  will  not  love  anyone  easily,  perhaps  not  at  all; 
j  yet  love  would  be  more  like  to  bring  her  right  than  anything 
else.  If  any  young  person  seems  in  danger  of  falling  in 
love  with  her,  send  him  to  me  for  counsel." 

Dry,  hard  advice,  but  given  from  a  kind  heart,  with  a 
moist  eye,  and  in  tones  which  tried  to  be  cheerful  and  were 
full  of  sympathy.  This  advice  was  the  key  to  the  more  than 
indulgent  treatment  which,  as  we  have  seen,  the  girl  had  re 
ceived  from  her  father  and  all  about  her.  The  old  Doctor 
often  came  in,  in  the  kindest,  most  natural  sort  of  way,  got 
into  pleasant  relations  with  Elsie  by  always  treating  her  in 
the  same  easy  manner  as  at  the  great  party,  encouraging  all 


FAMILY    SECRETS.  145 

her  harmless  fancies,  and  rarely  reminding  her  that  he  was 
a  professional  adviser,  except  when  she  came  out  of  her  own 
accord,  as  in  the  talk  they  had  at  the  party,  telling  him  of 
some  wild  trick  she  had  been  playing. 

"Let  her  go  to  the  girls'  school,  by  all  means,"  said  the 
Doctor,  when  she  had  begun  to  talk  about  it.  "  Possibly  she 
may  take  to  some  of  the  girls  or  of  the  teachers.  Anything 
to  interest  her.  Friendship,  love,  religion, — whatever  will 
set  her  nature  at  work.  We  must  have  headway  on,  or  there 
will  be  no  piloting  her.  Action  first  of  all,  and  then  we  will 
see  what  to  do  with  it." 

So,  when  Cousin  Richard  came  along,  the  Doctor,  though 
he  did  not  like  his  looks  any  too  well,  told  her  father  to 
encourage  his  staying  for  a  time.  If  she  liked  him,  it  was 
good ;  if  she  only  tolerated  him,  it  was  better  than  nothing. 

"  You  know  something  about  that  nephew  of  yours,  during 
these  last  years,  I  suppose  ? "  the  Doctor  said.  "  Looks  as  if 
he  had  seen  life.  Has  a  scar  that  was  made  by  a  sword-cut, 
and  a  white  spot  on  the  side  of  his  neck  that  looks  like  a 
bullet-mark.  I  think  he  has  been  what  folks  call  a  '  hard 
customer.' " 

Dudley  Venner  owned  that  he  had  heard  little  or  nothing 
of  him  of  late  years.  He  had  invited  himself,  and  of  course 
it  would  not  be  decent  not  to  receive  him  as  a  relative.  He 
thought  Elsie  rather  liked  having  him  about  the  house  for 
a  while.  She  was  very  capricious, — acted  as  if  she  fancied 
him  one  day  and  disliked  him  the  next.  He  did  not  know, — 
but  sometimes  thought  that  this  nephew  of  his  might  take 
a  serious  liking  to  Elsie.  What  should  he  do  about  it,  if  it 
turned  out  so? 

The  Doctor  lifted  his  eyebrows  a  little.  He  thought  there 
was  no  fear.  Elsie  was  naturally  what  they  call  a  man- 
hater,  and  there  was  very  little  danger  of  any  sudden  passion 
springing  up  between  two  such  young  persons.  Let  him  stay 
a  while ;  it  gives  her  something  to  think  about.  So  he  stayed 
a  while,  as  we  have  seen. 

The  more  Mr.  Richard  became  acquainted  with  the  family, 
— that  is,  with  the  two  persons  of  whom  it  consisted, — the 
more  favorably  the  idea  of  a  permanent  residence  in  the 
mansion-house  seemed  to  impress  him.  The  estate  was  large, 
— hundreds  of  acres,  with  woodlands  and  meadows  of  great 
value.  The  father  and  daughter  had  been  living  quietly,  and 


\ 


146  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

there  could  not  be  a  doubt  that  the  property  which  came 
through  the  Dudleys  must  have  largely  increased  of  late 
years.  It  was  evident  enough  that  they  had  an  abundant  in 
come,  from  the  way  in  which  Elsie's  caprices  were  indulged. 
She  had  horses  and  carriages  to  suit  herself;  she  sent  to  the 
great  city  for  everything  she  wanted  in  the  way  of  dress. 
Even  her  diamonds — and  the  young  man  knew  something 
about  these  gems — must  be  of  considerable  value ;  and  yet  she 
wore  them  carelessly,  as  it  pleased  her  fancy.  She  had  pre 
cious  old  laces,  too,  almost  worth  their  weight  in  diamonds, — 
laces  which  had  been  snatched  from  altars  in  ancient  Spanish 
cathedrals  during  the  wars,  and  which  it  would  not  be  safe 
to  leave  a  duchess  alone  with  for  ten  minutes.  The  old 
house  was  fat  with  the  deposits  of  rich  generations  which 
had  gone  before.  The  famous  "  golden  "  fire-set  was  a  pur 
chase  of  one  of  the  family  who  had  been  in  France  during 
the  Revolution,  and  must  have  come  from  a  princely  palace, 
if  not  from  one  of  the  royal  residences.  As  for  silver,  the 
iron  closet  which  had  been  made  in  the  dining-room  wall 
was  running  over  with  it:  tea-kettles,  coffee-pots,  heavy-lid 
ded  tankards,  chafing-dishes,  punch-bowls,  all  that  all  the 
Dudleys  had  ever  used,  from  the  caudle-cup  which  used  to 
be  handed  round  the  young  mother's  chamber,  and  the^por- 
ringer  from  which  children  scooped  their  bread-and-milk 
with  spoons  as  solid  as  ingots,  to  that  ominous  vessel,  on  the 
upper  shelf,  far  back  in  the  dark,  with  a  spout  like  a  slender 
italic  S,  out  of  which  the  sick  and  dying,  all  along  the  last 
century,  and  since,  had  taken  the  last  drops  that  passed  their 
lips.  Without  being  much  of  a  scholar,  Dick  could  see  well 
enough,  too,  that  the  books  in  the  library  had  been  ordered 
from  the  great  London  houses,  whose  imprint  they  bore,  by 
persons  who  knew  what  was  best  and  meant  to  have  it.  A 
man  does  not  require  much  learning  to  feel  pretty  sure,  when 
he  takes  one  of  those  solid,  smooth,  velvet-leaved  quartos, 
say  a  Baskerville  Addison,  for  instance,  bound  in  red  mo 
rocco,  with  a  margin  of  gold  as  rich  as  the  embroidery  of  a 
prince's  collar,  as  Vandyck  drew  it, — he  need  not  know  much 
to  feel  pretty  sure  that  a  score  or  two  of  shelves  full  of  such 
books  mean  that  it  took  a  long  purse,  as  well  as  a  literary 
taste,  to  bring  them  together. 

To  all  these  attractions  the  mind  of  this  thoughtful  young 
gentleman  may  be  said  to  have  been  fully  open.    He  did  not 


FAMILY    SECRETS.  147 

disguise  from  himself,  however,  that  there  were  a  number 
of  drawbacks  in  the  way  of  his  becoming  established  as  the 
heir  of  the  Dudley  mansion-house  and  fortune.  In  the  first 
place,  Cousin  Elsie  was,  unquestionably,  very  piquant,  very 
handsome,  game  as  a  hawk,  and  hard  to  please,  which  made 
her  worth  trying  for.  But  then  there  was  something  about 
Cousin  Elsie, — '(the  small,  white  scars  began  stinging,  as 
he  said  this  to  himself,  and  he  pushed  his  sleeve  up  to  look 
at  them,) — there  was  something  about  Cousin  Elsie  he 
couldn't  make  out.  What  was  the  matter  with  her  eyes,  that 
they  sucked  your  life  out  of  you  in  that  strange  way  ?  What  \ 
did  she  always  wear  a  necklace  for  ?  Had  she  some  such  ) 
love-token  on  her  neck  as  the  old  Don's  revolver  had  left 
on  his  ?  How  safe  would  anybody  feel  to  live  with  her  ?  Be 
sides,  her  father  would  last  forever,  if  he  was  left  to  himself. 
And  he  may  take  it  into  his  head  to  marry  again.  That 
would  be  pleasant! 

So  talked  Cousin  Richard  to  himself,  in  the  calm  of  the 
night  and  in  the  tranquillity  of  his  own  soul.  There  was 
much  to  be  said  on  both  sides.  It  was  a  balance  to>  be  struck  i 
after  the  two  columns  were  added  up.  He  struck  the  bal 
ance,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  fall  in  love 
with  Elsie  Venner. 

The  intelligent  reader  will  not  confound  this  matured  and 
serious  intention  of  falling  in  love  with  the  young  lady  with 
that  mere  impulse  of  the  moment  before  mentioned  as  an 
instance  of  making  love.  On  the  contrary,  the  moment  Mr. 
Richard  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  should  fall  in  love 
with  Elsie,  he  began  to  be  more  reserved  with  her,  and  try 
to  make  friends  in  other  quarters.  Sensible  men,  you  know, 
care  very  little  what  a  girl's  present  fancy  is.  The  question 
is:  Who  manages  her,  and  how  can  you  get  at  that  person 
or  those  persons?  Her  foolish  little  sentiments  are  all  very 
well  in  their  way;  but  business  is  business,  and  we  can't 
stop  for  such  trifles.  The  old  political  wire-pullers  never  go 
near  the  man  they  want  to  gain,  if  they  can  help  it;  they 
find  out  who  his  intimates  and  managers  are,  and  work 
through  them.  Always  handle  any  positively  electrical  body, 
whether  it  is  charged  with  passion  or  power,  with  some  non 
conductor  between  you  and  it,  not  with  your  naked  hands. — 
The  above  were  some  of  the  young  gentleman's  working 
axioms ;  and  he  proceeded  to  act  in  accordance  with  them. 


148  ELSIE    VENNER. 

He  began  by  paying  his  court  more  assiduously  to  his 
uncle.  It  was  not  very  hard  to  ingratiate  himself  in  that 
quarter;  for  his  manners  were  insinuating,  and  his  preco 
cious  experience  of  life  made  him  entertaining.  The  old 
neglected  billiard-room  was  soon  put  in  order,  and  Dick,  who 
was  a  magnificent  player,  had  a  series  of  games  with  his 
uncle,  in  which,  singularly  enough,  he  was  beaten,  though 
his  antagonist  had  been  out  of  play  for  years.  He  evinced 
a  profound  interest  in  the  family  history,  insisted  on  having 
the  details  of  its  early  alliances,  and  professed  a  great  pride 
in  it,  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  father,  who,  though 
he  had  allied  himself  with  the  daughter  of  an  alien  race, 
had  yet  chosen  one  with  the  real  azure  blood  in  her  veins, 
as  proud  as  if  she  had  Castile  and  Aragon  for  her  dower  and 
the  Cid  for  her  grandpapa.  He  also  asked  a  great  deal  of 
advice,  such  as  inexperienced  young  persons  are  in  need  of, 
and  listened  to  it  with  due  reverence. 

It  is  not  very  strange  that  Uncle  Dudley  took  a  kinder 
view  of  his  nephew  than  the  Judge,  who  thought  he  could 
read  a  questionable  history  in  his  face, — or  the  old  Doctor, 
who  knew  men's  temperaments  and  organizations  pretty  well, 
and  had  his  prejudices  about  races,  and  could  tell  an  old 
sword-cut  and  a  bullet-mark  in  two  seconds  from  a  scar  got 
by  falling  against  the  fender,  or  a  mark  left  by  king's  evil. 
He  could  not  be  expected  to  share  our  own  prejudices;  for 
he  had  heard  nothing  of  the  wild  youth's  adventures,  or 
his  scamper  over  the  Pampas  at  short  notice.  So,  then, 
"  Richard  Venner,  Esquire,  guest  of  Dudley  Vernier, 
Esquire,  at  his  elegant  mansion,"  prolonged  his  visit  until 
his  presence  became  something  like  a  matter  of  habit,  and 
the  neighbors  began  to  think  that  the  fine  old  house  would 
be  illuminated  before  long  for  a  grand  marriage. 

He  had  done  pretty  well  with  the  father:  the  next  thing 
was  to  gain  over  the  nurse.  Old  Sophy  was  as  cunning  as 
a  red  fox  or  a  gray  woodchuck.  She  had  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do  but  to  watch  Elsie;  she  had  nothing  to  care  for 
but  this  girl  and  her  father.  She  had  never  liked  Dick  too 
v/ell ;  for  he  used  to  make  faces  at  her  and  tease  her  when  he 
was  a  boy,  and  now  he  was  a  man  there  was  something  about 
him — she  could  not  tell  what — that  made  her  suspicious  of 
him.  It  was  no  small  matter  to  get  her  over  to  his  side. 

The  jet-black  Africans  know  that  gold  never  looks  so  well 


FAMILY   SECRETS.  149 

as  on  the  foil  of  their  dark  skins.  Dick  found  in  his  trunk 
a  string  of  gold  beads,  such  as  are  manufactured  in  some  of 
our  cities,  which  he  had  brought  from  the  gold  region  of 
Chili, — so  he  said, — for  the  express  purpose  of  giving  them 
to  old  Sophy.  These  Africans,  too,  have  a  perfect  passion 
for  gay-colored  clothing:  being  condemned  by  Nature,  as 
it  were,  to  a  perpetual  mourning-suit,  they  love  to  enliven 
it  with  all  sorts  of  variegated  stuffs  of  sprightly  patterns, 
aflame  with  red  and  yellow.  The  considerate  young  man 
had  remembered  this,  too,  and  brought  home  for  Sophy  some 
handkerchiefs  of  rainbow  hues,  which  had  been  strangely 
overlooked  till  now,  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  his  trunks.  Old 
Sophy  took  his  gifts,  but  kept  her  black  eyes  open  and 
watched  every  movement  of  the  young  people  all  the  more 
closely.  It  was  through  her  that  the  father  had  always 
known  most  of  the  actions  and  tendencies  of  his  daughter. 

In  the  meantime  the  strange  adventure  on  The  Mountain 
had  brought  the  young  master  into  new  relations  with  Elsie. 
She  had  led  him  out  of  danger;  perhaps  saved  him  from 
death  by  the  strange  power  she  exerted.  He  was  grateful, 
and  yet  shuddered  at  the  recollection  of  the  whole  scene. 
In  his  dreams  he  was  pursued  by  the  glare  of  cold,  glittering 
eyes, — whether  they  were  in  the  head  of  a  woman  or  of  a  [• 
reptile  he  could  not  always  tell,  the  images  had  so  run  to 
gether.  But  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  the  eyes  of  the ' 
young  girl  had  been  often,  very  often,  turned  upon  him 
when  he  had  been  looking  away,  and  fell  as  his  own  glance 
met  them.  Helen  Darley  told  him  very  plainly  that  this 
girl  was  thinking  about  him  more  than  about  her  book. 
Dick  Venner  found  she  was  getting  more  constant  in  her 
attendance  at  school.  He  learned,  on  inquiry,  that  there  was 
a  new  master,  a  handsome  young  man.  The  handsome  young 
man  would  not  have  liked  the  look  that  came  over  Dick's 
face  when  he  heard  this  fact  mentioned. 

In  short,  everything  was  getting  tangled  up  together,  and 
there  would  be  no  chance  of  disentangling  the  threads  in 
this  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PHYSIOLOGICAL. 

If  Master  Bernard  felt  a  natural  gratitude  to  his  young 
pupil  from  saving  him  from  an  imminent  peril,  he  was  in  a 
state  of  infinite  perplexity  to  know  why  he  should  have 
needed  much  aid.  He,  an  active,  muscular,  courageous,  ad 
venturous  young  fellow,  with  a  stick  in  his  hand,  ready  to 
hold  down  the  Old  Serpent  himself,  if  he  had  come  in  his 
way,  to  stand  still,  staring  into  those  two  eyes  until  they 
came  up  close  to  him,  and  the  strange,  terrible  sound 
seemed  to  freeze  him  stiff  where  he  stood, — what  was  the 
meaning  of  it?  Again,  what  was  the  influence  this  girl  had 
seemingly  exerted,  under  which  the  venomous  creature  had 
collapsed  in  such  a  sudden  way  ?  Whether  he  had  been  awake 
or  dreaming,  he  did  not  feel  quite  sure.  He  knew  he  had 
gone  up  The  Mountain,  at  any  rate  ;  he  knew  he  had  come 
down  The  Mountain  with  the  girl  walking  just  before  him; — 
there  was  no  forgetting  her  figure  as  she  walked  on  in  silence, 
her  braided  locks  falling  a  little,  for  want  of  the  lost  hair-pin, 
perhaps,  and  looking  like  a  wreathing  coil  of 

Shame  on  such  fancies ! — to  wrong  that  supreme  crowning 
gift  of  abounding  Nature,  a  rush  of  shining  black  hair, 
which,  shaken  loose,  would  cloud  her  all  round,  like  Godiva, 
from  brow  to  instep !  He  was  sure  he  had  sat  down  before  the 
fissure  or  cave.  He  was  sure  that  he  was  led  softly  away 
from  the  place,  and  that  it  was  Elsie  who  had  led  him.  There 
was  the  hair-pin  to  show  that  so  far  it  was  not  a  dream.  But 
between  these  recollections  came  a  strange  confusion;  and 
the  more  the  master  thought,  the  more  he  was  perplexed  to 
know  whether  she  had  waked  him,  sleeping,  as  he  sat  on  the 
stone,  from  some  frightful  dream,  such  as  may  come  in  a  very 
brief  slumber,  or  whether  she  had  bewitched  him  into  a  trance 
with  those  strange  eyes  of  hers,  or  whether  it  was  all  true, 
and  he  must  solve  its  problem  as  he  best  might. 

There  was  another  recollection  connected  with  this  moun 
tain  adventure.  As  they  approached  the  mansion-house,  they 


PHYSIOLOGICAL.  151 

met  a  young  man,  whom  Mr.  Bernard  remembered  having 
seen  once  at  least  before,  and  whom  he  had  heard  of  as  a 
cousin  of  the  young  girl.  As  Cousin  Richard  Venner,  the 
person  in  question,  passed  them,  he  took  the  measure,  so  to 
speak,  of  Mr.  Bernard,  with  a  look  so  piercing,  so  exhausting, 
so  practiced,  so  profoundly  suspicious,  that  the  young  master 
felt  in  an  instant  that  he  had  an  enemy  in  this  handsome 
youth, — an  enemy,  too,  who  was  like  to  be  subtle  and  dan 
gerous. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  made  up  his  mind  that,  come  what  might, 
enemy  or  no  enemy,  live  or  die,  he  would  solve  the  mystery  of 
Elsie  Venner,  sooner  or  later.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be 
frightened  out  of  his  resolution  by  a  scowl,  or  a  stiletto,  or 
any  unknown  means  of  mischief,  of  which  a  whole  armory 
was  hinted  at  in  that  passing  look  Dick  Venner  had  given 
him.  Indeed,  like  most  adventurous  young  persons,  he  found 
a  kind  of  charm  in  feeling  that  there  might  be  some  dangers 
in  the  way  of  his  investigations.  Some  rumors  which  had 
reached  him  about  the  supposed  suitor  of  Elsie  Venner,  who 
was  thought  to  be  a  desperate  kind  of  fellow,  and  whom  some 
believed  to  be  ari  unscrupulous  adventurer,  added  a  curious, 
romantic  kind  of  interest  to  the  course  of  physiological  and 
psychological  inquiries  he  was  about  instituting. 

The  afternoon  on  The  Mountain  was  still  uppermost  in 
his  mind.  Of  course  he  knew  the  common  stories  about  fas 
cination.  He  had  once  been  himself  an  eye-witness  of  the 
charming  of  a  small  bird  by  one  of  our  common  harmless 
serpents.  Whether  a  human  being  could  be  reached  by  this 
subtile  agency,  he  had  been  skeptical,  notwithstanding  the 
mysterious  relation  generally  felt  to  exist  between  man  and 
this  creature,  "  cursed  above  all  cattle  and  above  every  beast 
of  the  field," — a  relation  which  some  interpret  as  the  fruit 
of  the  curse,  and  others  hold  to  be  so  instinctive  that  this 
animal  has  been  for  that  reason  adopted  as  the  natural  sym 
bol  of  evil.  There  was  another  solution,  however,  supplied 
him  by  his  professional  reading.  The  curious  work  of  Mr. 
Braid  of  Manchester  had  made  him  familiar  with  the  phe 
nomena  of  a  state  allied  to  that  produced  by  animal  mag 
netism,  and  called  by  that  writer  by  the  name  of  hypnotism. 
He  found,  by  referring  to  his  note-book,  the  statement  was, 
that,  by  fixing  the  eyes  on  a  bright  object  so  placed  as  to 
produce  a  strain  upon  the  eyes  and  eyelids,  and  to  main- 


152  ELSIE   VENNER. 

tain  a  steady  fixed  stare,  there  comes  on  in  a  few  seconds 
a  very  singular  condition,  characterized  by  muscular  rigidity 
and  inability  to  move,  with  a  strange  exaltation  of  most  of 
the  senses,  and  generally  a  closure  of  the  eyelids, — this  con 
dition  being  followed  by  torpor. 

Now  this  statement  of  Mr.  Braid's,  well  known  to  the 
scientific  world,  and  the  truth  of  which  had  been  confirmed 
by  Mr.  Bernard  in  certain  experiments  he  had  instituted, 
as  it  has  been  by  many  other  experimenters,  went  far  to  ex 
plain  the  strange  impressions,  of  which,  waking  or  dreaming, 
he  had  certainly  being  the  subject.  His  nervous  system  had 
been  in  a  high  state  of  exaltation  at  the  time.  He  remem 
bered  how  the  little  noises  that  made  rings  of  sound  in  the 
silence  of  the  woods,  like  pebbles  dropped  in  still  waters,  had 
reached  his  inner  consciousness.  He  remembered  that  singu 
lar  sensation  in  the  roots  of  the  hair,  when  he  came  on  the 
traces  of  the  girl's  presence,  reminding  him  of  a  line  in  a 
certain  poem  which  he  had  read  lately  with  a  new  and  pe 
culiar  interest.  He  even  recalled  a  curious  evidence  of  ex 
alted  sensibility  and  irritability,  in  the  twitching  of  the 
minute  muscles  of  the  internal  ear  at  every  unexpected  sound, 
producing  an  odd  little  snap  in  the  middle  of  the  head,  which 
proved  to  him  that  he  was  getting  very  nervous. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  out  whether  it  were  possible 
that  the  venomous  creature's  eyes  should  have  served  the 
purpose  of  Mr.  Braid's  "  bright  object "  held  very  close  to  the 
person  experimented  on,  or  whether  they  had  any  special 
power  which  could  be  made  the  subject  of  exact  observation. 

For  this  purpose  Mr.  Bernard  considered  it  necessary  to  get 
a  live  crotalus  or  two  into  his  possession,  if  this  were  possible. 
On  inquiry,  he  found  that  there  was  a  certain  family  living 
far  up  the  mountain  side,  not  a  mile  from  the  ledge,  the 
members  of  which  were  said  to  have  taken  these  creatures  oc 
casionally,  and  not  to  be  in  any  danger,  or,  at  least,  in  any  fear 
of  being  injured  by  them.  He  applied  to  these  people,  and 
offered  a  reward  sufficient  to  set  them  at  work  to  capture 
some  of  these  animals,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible. 

A  few  days  after  this,  a  dark,  gypsy-looking  woman  pre 
sented  herself  at  his  door.  She  held  up  her  apron  as  if  it 
contained  something  precious  in  the  bag  she  made  with  it. 

"  Y'  wanted  some  rattlers,"  said  the  woman.  "  Here  they 
be." 


PHYSIOLOGICAL.  153 

She  opened  her  apron  and  showed  a  coil  of  rattlesnakes 
lying  very  peaceably  in  its  fold.  They  lifted  their  heads  up, 
as  if  they  wanted  to  see  what  was  going  on,  but  showed  no 
sign  of  anger. 

"  Are  you  crazy  ? "  said  Mr.  Bernard.  "  You're  dead  in 
an  hour,  if  one  of  those  creatures  strikes  you !  " 

He  drew  back  a  little  as  he  spoke;  it  might  be  simple  dis 
gust;  it  might  be  fear;  it  might  be  what  we  call  antipathy, 
which  is  different  from  either,  and  which  will  sometimes  show 
itself  in  paleness,  and  even  faintness,  produced  by  objects 
perfectly  harmless  and  not  in  themselves  offensive  to  any 
sense. 

"  Lord  bless  you,"  said  the  woman,  "  rattlers  never  touches 
our  folks.  I'd  jest  'z  lieves  handle  them  creaturs  as  so  many 
striped  snakes." 

So  saying,  she  put  their  heads  down  with  her  hand,  and 
packed  them  together  in  her  apron  as  if  they  had  been  bits 
of  cart-rope. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  never  heard  of  the  power,  or,  at  least,  the 
belief  in  the  possession  of  a  power  by  certain  persons,  which 
enables  them  to  handle  these  frightful  reptiles  with  perfect  j 
impunity.  The  fact,  however,  is  well  known  to  others,  and 
more  especially  to  a  very  distinguished  professor  in  one  of 
the  leading  institutions  of  the  great  city  of  the  land,  whose 
experiences  in  the  neighborhood  of  Graylock,  as  he  will 
doubtless  inform  the  curious,  were  very  much  like  those  of 
the  young  master. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  a  wired  cage  ready  for  his  formidable  cap 
tives,  and  studied  their  habits  and  expression  with  a  strange 
sort  of  interest.  What  did  the  Creator  mean  to  signify,  when 
he  made  such  shapes  of  horror,  and,  as  if  he  had  doubly  cursed 
this  envenomed  wretch,  had  set  a  mark  upon  him  and  sent 
him  forth,  the  Cain  of  the  brotherhood  of  serpents?  It  was 
a  very  curious  fact  that  the  first  train  of  thoughts  Mr.  Ber-  \ 
nard's  small  menagerie  suggested  to  him  was  the  grave,  \ 
though  somewhat  worn,  subject  of  the  origin  of  evil.  There 
is  now  to  be  seen  in  a  tall  glass  jar,  in  the  Museum  of  Com 
parative  Anatomy  at  Cantabridge,  in  the  territory  of  the  Mas 
sachusetts,  a  huge  crotalus,  of  a  species  which  grows  to  more 
frightful  dimensions  than  our  own,  under  the  hotter  skies  of 
South  America.  Look  at  it,  ye  who  would  know  what  is  the 
tolerance,  the  freedom  from  prejudice,  which  can  suffer  such 


154  ELSIE    VEKNEK. 

an  incarnation  of  all  that  is  devilish  to  lie  unharmed  in  the 
cradle  of  Nature!  Learn,  too,  that  there  are  many  things  in 
this  world  which  we  are  warned  to  shun,  and  are  even  suffered 
to  slay,  if  need  be,  but  which  we  must  not  hate,  unless  we 
would  hate  what  God  loves  and  cares  for. 

Whatever  fascination  the  creature  might  exercise  in  his 
native  haunts,  Mr.  Bernard  found  himself  not  in  the  least 
nervous  or  affected  in  any  way  while  looking  at  his  caged 
reptiles.  When  their  cage  was  shaken,  they  would  lift  their 
heads  and  spring  their  rattles;  but  the  sound  was  by  no 
means  so  formidable  to  listen  to  as  when  it  reverberated 
among  the  chasms  of  the  echoing  rocks.  The  expression  of 
the  creatures  was  watchful,  still,  grave,  passionless,  fate-like, 
suggesting  a  cold  malignity  which  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
its  opportunity.  Their  awful,  deep-cut  mouths  were  sternly 
closed  over  the  long  hollow  fangs,  which  rested  their  roots 
against  the  swollen  poison  gland,  where  the  venom  had  been 
hoarding  up  ever  since  the  last  stroke  had  emptied  it.  They 
never  winked,  for  ophidians  have  no  movable  eyelids,  but 
kept  up  that  awful  fixed  stare  which  made  the  two  unwinking 
gladiators  the  survivors  of  twenty  pairs  matched  by  one  of 
the  Roman  Emperors,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  in  his  "  Natural  His 
tory."  Their  eyes  did  not  flash,  but  shone  with  a  cold,  still 
light.  They  were  of  a  pale  golden  or  straw  color,  horrible  to 
look  into,  with  their  stony  calmness,  their  pitiless  indiffer 
ence,  hardly  enlivened  by  the  almost  imperceptible  vertical  slit 
of  the  pupil,  through  which  Death  seemed  to  be  looking  out 
like  the  archer  behind  the  long  narrow  loophole  in  a  blank 
turret  wall.  On  the  whole,  the  caged  reptiles,  horrid  as  they 
were,  hardly  matched  his  recollections  of  what  he  had  seen  or 
dreamed  he  saw  at  the  cavern.  These  looked  dangerous 
enough,  but  yet  quiet.  A  treacherous  stillness,  however, — as 
the  unfortunate  New  York  physician  found,  when  he  put  his 
foot  out  to  wake  up  the  torpid  creature,  and  instantly  the  fang 
flashed  through  his  boot,  carrying  the  poison  into  his  blood, 
and  death  with  it. 

Mr.  Bernard  kept  these  strange  creatures,  and  watched  all 
tneir  habits  with  a  natural  curiosity.  In  any  collection  of  ani 
mals  the  venomous  beasts  are  looked  at  with  the  greatest  in 
terest,  just  as  the  greatest  villains  are  most  run  after  by  the 
unknown  public.  Nobody  troubles  himself  for  a  common 
striped  snake  or  a  petty  thief,  but  a  cobra  or  a  wife-killer  is  a 


PHYSIOLOGICAL.  155 

center  of  attraction  to  all  eyes.  These  captives  did  very  little _J 
to  earn  their  living,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  their  living  was 
not  expensive,  their  diet  being  nothing  but  air,  au  naturel. 
Months  and  months  these  creatures  will  live  and  seem  to 
thrive  well  enough,  as  any  showman  who  has  them  in  his 
menagerie  will  testify,  though  they  never  touch  anything  to 
eat  or  drink. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Bernard  had  become  very  curious 
about  a  class  of  subjects  not  treated  of  in  detail  in  those  text 
books  accessible  in  most  country  towns,  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  more  special  treatises,  and  especially  of  the  rare  and 
ancient  works  found  on  the  shelves  of  the  larger  city  libraries. 
He  was  on  a  visit  to  old  Dr.  Kittredge  one  day,  having  been 
asked  by  him  to  call  in  for  a  few  moments  as  soon  as  con 
venient.  The  Doctor  smiled  good-humoredly  when  he  asked 
him  if  he  had  an  extensive  collection  of  medical  works. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  old  Doctor,  "  I  haven't  got  a  great  many 
printed  books ;  and  what  I  have  I  don't  read  quite  as  often  as 
I  might,  I'm  afraid.  I  read  and  studied  in  the  time  of  it, 
when  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the  young  men  who  were  all  at 
work  with  their  books;  but  it's  a  mighty  hard  matter,  when 
you  go  off  alone  into  the  country,  to  keep  up  with  all  that's 
going  on  in  the  Societies  and  Colleges.  I'll  tell  you,  though, 
Mr.  Langdon,  when  a  man  that's  once  started  right  lives 
among  sick  folks  for  five-and-thirty  years,  as  I've  done,  if  he 
hasn't  got  a  library  of  five-and-thirty  volumes  bound  up  in  his 
head  at  the  end  of  that  time,  he'd  better  stop  driving  round 
and  sell  his  horse  and  sulky.  I  know  the  bigger  part  of  the 
families  within  a  dozen  miles'  ride.  I  know  the  families  that 
have  a  way  of  living  through  everything,  and  I  know  the 
other  set  that  have  the  trick  of  dying  without  any  kind  of  rea 
son  for  it.  I  know  the  years  when  the  fevers  and  dysenteries 
are  in  earnest,  and  when  they're  only  making  believe.  I 
know  the  folks  that  think  they're  dying  as  soon  as  they're 
sick,  and  the  folks  that  never  find  out  they're  sick  till  they're 
dead.  I  don't  want  to  undervalue  your  science,  Mr.  Langdon. 
There  are  things  I  never  learned  because  they  came  in  after 
my  day,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  send  my  patients  to  those  that 
do  know  them,  when  I  am  at  fault ;  but  I  know  these  people  f -- 
about  here,  fathers  and  mothers,  and  children  and  grandchil-  / _} 
dren,  so  as  all  the  science  in  the  world  can't  know  them,  with- 
out  it  takes  time  about  it,  and  sees  them  grow  up  and  grow 


156  ELSIE   VENNER. 

old,  and  how  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  comes  to  them.  You 
can't  tell  a  horse  by  driving  him  once,  Mr.  Langdon,  nor  a 
patient  by  talking  half  an  hour  with  him." 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  the  Venner  family  ? "  said  Mr. 
Bernard,  in  a  natural  way  enough,  the  Doctor's  talk  having 
suggested  the  question. 

The  Doctor  lifted  his  head  with  his  accustomed  move 
ment,  so  as  to  command  the  young  man  through  his  spec 
tacles. 

"  I  know  all  the  families  of  this  place  and  its  neighbor 
hood,"  he  answered. 

"  We  have  the  young  lady  studying  with  us  at  the  Insti 
tute,"  said  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  I  know  it,"  the  Doctor  answered.  "  Is  she  a  good 
scholar  ? " 

All  this  time  the  Doctor's  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  Mr. 
Bernard,  looking  through  the  glasses. 

"  She  is  a  good  scholar  enough,  but  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  her.  Sometimes  I  think  she  is  a  little  out  of  her 
head.  Her  father,  I  believe,  is  sensible  enough; — what  sort 
of  a  woman  was  her  mother,  Doctor? — I  suppose  of  course, 
you  remember  all  about  her  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  her  mother.  She  was  a  very  lovely  young 
woman."  The  Doctor  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  drew 
a  long  breath.  "  What  is  there  you  notice  out  of  the  way 
with  Elsie  Venner  ?  " 

"  A  good  many  things,"  the  master  answered.  "  She  shuns 
all  the  other  girls.  She  is  getting  a  strange  influence  over 
my  fellow-teacher,  a  young  lady, — you  know  Miss  Helen  Dar- 
ley,  perhaps  ?  I  am  afraid  this  girl  will  kill  her.  I  never  saw 
or  heard  of  anything  like  it,  in  prose  at  least; — do  you  re 
member  much  of  Coleridge's  Poems,  Doctor  ? " 

The  good  old  Doctor  had  to  plead  a  negative. 

"  Well,  no  matter.  Elsie  would  have  been  burned  for  a 
witch  in  old  times.  I  have  seen  the  girl  look  at  Miss  Darley 
when  she  had  not  the  least  idea  of  it,  and  all  at  once  I  would 
see  her  grow  pale  and  moist,  and  sigh  and  move  round  un 
easily,  and  turn  towards  Elsie,  and  perhaps  get  up  and  go  to 
her,  or  else  have  slight  spasmodic  movements  that  looked 
like  hysterics ; — do  you  believe  in  the  evil  eye,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Langdon,"  the  Doctor  said  solemnly,  "  there  are 
strange  things  about  Elsie  Venner, — very  strange  things. 


PHYSIOLOGICAL.  157 

This  was  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about.  Let  me  ad 
vise  you  all  to  be  very  patient  with  the  girl,  but  also  very 
careful.  Her  love  is  not  to  be  desired,  and  " — he  spoke  in  a 
lower  tone — "her  hate  is  to  be  dreaded.  Do  you  think  she 
has  any  special  fancy  for  anybody  else  in  the  school  besides 
MissDarley?" 

Mr.  Bernard  could  not  stand  the  old  Doctor's  spectacled 
eyes  without  betraying  a  little  of  the  feeling  natural  to  a 
young  man  to  whom  a  home  question  involving  a  possible 
sentiment  is  put  suddenly. 

"  I  have  suspected,"  he  said, — "  I  have  had  a  kind  of  feel 
ing — that  she Well,  come,  Doctor, — I  don't  know  that 

there's  any  use  in  disguising  the  matter, — I  have  thought 
Elsie  Venner  had  rather  a  fancy  for  somebody  else, — I  mean 
myself." 

There  was  something  so  becoming  in  the  blush  with  which 
the  young  man  made  this  confession,  and  so  manly,  too,  in  the 
tone  with  which  he  spoke,  so  remote  from  any  hollow  vanity, 
such  as  young  men  who  are  incapable  of  love  are  apt  to  feel, 
when  some  loose  tendril  of  a  woman's  fancy  which  a  chance 
wind  has  blown  against  them  twines  about  them  for  the  want 
of  anything  better,  that  the  old  Doctor  looked  at  him  ad 
miringly,  and  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  no  wonder 
any  young  girl  should  be  pleased  with  him. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  nerve,  Mr.  Langdon,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  thought  so  till  very  lately,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  not 
easily  frightened,  but  I  don't  know  but  I  might  be  bewitched 
or  magnetized,  or  whatever  it  is  when  one  is  tied  up  and  can 
not  move.  I  think  I  can  find  nerve  enough,  however,  if  there 
is  any  special  use  you  want  to  put  it  to." 

"  Let  me  ask  you  one  more  question,  Mr.  Langdon.  Do  you 
find  yourself  disposed  to  take  a  special  interest  in  Elsie, — to 
fall  in  love  with  her,  in  a  word  ?  Pardon  me,  for  I  do  not  ask 
from  curiosity,  but  a  much  more  serious  motive." 

"  Elsie  interests  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "  interests  me 
strangely.  She  is  a  wild  flower  in  her  character,  which  is 
wholly  different  from  that  of  any  human  creature  I  ever 
saw.  She  has  marks  of  genius, — poetic  or  dramatic, — I 
hardly  know  which.  She  read  a  passage  from  Keats'  'Laniia.!.... 
the  other  day,  in  the  schoolroom,  in  such  a  way  that  I  de 
clare  to  you  I  thought  some  of  the  girls  would  faint  or  go  into 
fits.  Miss  Darley  got  up  and  left  the  room,  trembling  all 


158  ELSIE    VENNER. 

over.  Then  I  pity  her.  She  is  so  lonely.  The  girls  are 
afraid  of  her,  and  she  seems  to  have  either  a  dislike  or  a  fear 
of  them.  They  have  all  sorts  of  painful  stories  about  her. 
They  give  her  a  name  which  no  human  creature  ought  to 
bear.  They  say  she  hides  a  mark  on  her  neck  by  always 
wearing  a  necklace.  She  is  very  graceful,  you  know,  and 
they  will  have  it  that  she  can  twist  herself  into  all  sorts  of 
shapes,  or  tie  herself  in  a  knot  if  she  wants  to.  There  is  not 
one  of  them  that  will  look  her  in  the  eyes.  I  pity  the  poor 
girl;  but,  Doctor,  I  do  not  love  her.  I  would  risk  my  life 
for  her,  if  it  would  do  her  any  good,  but  it  would  be  in  cold 
blood.  If  her  hand  touches  mine,  it  is  not  a  thrill  of  passion 
I  feel  running  through  me,  but  a  very  different  emotion.  Oh, 
Doctor !  there  must  be  something  in  that  creature's  blood 
which  has  killed  the  humanity  in  her.  God  only  knows  the 
cause  that  has  blighted  such  a  soul  in  so  beautiful  a  body! 
No,  Doctor,  I  do  not  love  the  girl." 

"  Mr.  Langdon,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you  are  young,  and  I 
am  old.  Let  me  talk  to  you  with  an  old  man's  privilege,  as 
an  adviser.  You  have  come  to  this  country  town  without 
suspicion,  and  you  are  moving  in  the  midst  of  perils.  There 
are  things  which  I  must  not  tell  you  now;  but  I  may  warn 
you.  Keep  your  eyes  open  and  your  heart  shut.  If,  through 
pitying  that  girl,  you  ever  come  to  love  her,  you  are  lost.  If 
you  deal  carelessly  with  her,  beware !  This  is  not  all.  There  are 
other  eyes  on  you  besides  Elsie  Venner's.  Do  you  go  armed  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Bernard, — and  he  "  put  his  hands  up  "  in 
the  shape  of  fists  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  he  was  master 
of  the  natural  weapons,  at  any  rate. 

The  Doctor  could  not  help  smiling.  But  his  face  fell  in  an 
instant. 

"  You  may  want  something  more  than  those  tools  to  work 
with.  Come  with  me  into  my  sanctum." 

The  Doctor  led  Mr.  Bernard  into  a  small  room  opening  out 
of  the  study.  It  was  a  place  such  as  anybody  but  a  medical 
man  would  shiver  to  enter.  There  was  the  usual  tall  box, 
with  its  bleached,  rattling  tenant;  there  were  jars  in  rows, 
where  "  interesting  cases  "  outlived  the  grief  of  widows  and 
heirs  in  alcoholic  immortality, — for  your  "  preparation- jar  " 
is  the  true  "  monumentum  aere  perennius  " ;  there  were  various 
semipossibilities  of  minute  dimensions  and  unpromising  de 
velopments;  there  were  shining  instruments  of  evil  aspect,. 


PHYSIOLOGICAL.  159 

and  grim  plates  on  the  walls,  and  on  one  shelf,  by  itself, 
accursed  and  apart,  coiled  in  a  long  cylinder  of  spirit,  a 
huge  crotalus,  rough-scaled,  flat-headed,  variegated  with  dull 
bands,  one  of  which  partially  encircled  the  neck  like  a  col-  ) 
lar, — an  awful  wretch  to  look  upon,  with  murder  written  all 
over  him  in  horrid  hieroglyphics.  Mr.  Bernard's  look  was 
riveted  on  this  creature, — not  fascinated  certainly,  for  its 
eyes  looked  like  white  beads,  being  clouded  by  the  action  of 
the  spirits  in  which  it  had  been  long  kept, — but  fixed  by  some 
indefinite  sense  of  the  renewal  of  a  previous  impression; — 
everybody  knows  the  feeling,  with  its  suggestion  of  some  past 
state  of  existence.  There  was  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  jar, 
with  something  written  on  it.  He  was  reaching  up  to  read  it, 
when  the  Doctor  touched  him  lightly. 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Langdon !  "  he  said,  with  a  certain  vivacity 
of  manner,  as  if  wishing  to  call  away  his  attention, — "  this  is 
my  armory." 

The  Doctor  threw  open  the  door  of  a  small  cabinet,  where 
were  disposed  in  artistic  patterns  various  weapons  of  offense 
and  defense, — for  he  was  a  virtuoso  in  his  way,  and  by 
the  side  of  the  implements  of  the  art  of  healing  had  pleased 
himself  with  displaying  a  collection  of  those  other  instru 
ments,  the  use  of  which  renders  the  first  necessary. 

"  See  which  of  these  weapons  you  would  like  best  to  carry 
about  you,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Mr.  Bernard  laughed,  and  looked  at  the  Doctor  as  if  he 
had  doubted  whether  he  was  in  earnest. 

"  This  looks  dangerous  enough,"  he  said, — "  for  the  man 
who  carries  it,  at  least." 

He  took  down  one  of  the  prohibited  Spanish  daggers,  or 
knives,  which  a  traveler  may  occasionally  get  hold  of  and 
smuggle  out  of  the  country.  The  blade  was  broad,  trowel- 
like,  but  the  point  drawn  out  several  inches  so  as  to  look 
like  a  skewer. 

"  This  must  be  a  jealous  bull-fighter's  weapon,"  he  said, 
and  put  it  back  in  its  place. 

Then  he  took  down  an  ancient-looking  broad-bladed  dag 
ger,  with  a  complex  aspect  about  it,  as  if  it  had  some  kind 
of  mechanism  connected  with  it. 

"  Take  care ! "  said  the  Doctor ;  "  there  is  a  trick  to  that 
dagger.'' 

He  took  it  and  touched  a  spring.    The  dagger  split  sud- 


160  ELSIE   VENNER. 

denly  into  three  blades,  as  when  one  separates  the  forefinger 
and  the  ring  finger  from  the  middle  one.  The  outside  blades 
were  sharp  on  the  outer  edge.  The  stab  was  to  be  made  with 
the  dagger  shut,  then  the  spring  touched  and  the  split  blades 
withdrawn. 

Mr.  Bernard  replaced  it,  saying  that  it  would  have  served 
for  a  side-arm  to  old  Suwarrow,  who  told  his  men  to  work 
their  bayonets  back  and  forward  when  they  pinned  a  Turk, 
but  to  wriggle  them  about  in  the  wound  when  they  stabbed 
a  Frenchman. 

"  Here,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  this  is  the  thing  you  want." 

He  took  down  a  much  more  modern  and  familiar  imple 
ment — a  small,  beautifully  finished  revolver. 

"  I  want  you  to  carry  this,"  he  said,  "  and  more  than  that, 
I  want  you  to  practice  with  it  often,  as  for  amusement,  but 
so  that  it  may  be  seen  and  understood  that  you  are  apt  to 
have  a  pistol  with  you.  Pistol-shooting  is  pleasant  sport 
enough,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  practice 
it  like  other  young  fellows.  And,  now,"  the  Doctor  said,  "  I 
have  one  other  weapon  to  give  you." 

He  took  a  small  piece  of  parchment  and  shook  a  white 
powder  into  it  from  one  of  his  medicine  jars.  The  jar  was 
marked  with  the  name  of  a  mineral  salt,  of  a  nature  to  have 
been  serviceable  in  case  of  sudden  illness  in  the  time  of  the 
Borgias.  The  Doctor  folded  the  parchment  carefully  and 
marked  the  Latin  name  of  the  powder  upon  it. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  Mr.  Bernard, — "  you  see 
what  it  is,  and  you  know  what  service  it  can  render.  Keep 
these  two  protectors  about  your  person  day  and  night;  they 
will  not  harm  you,  and  you  may  want  one  or  the  other  or 
both  before  you  think  of  it." 

Mr.  Bernard  thought  it  was  very  odd,  and  not  very  old- 
gentlemanlike,  to  be  fitting  him  out  for  treason,  stratagem, 
and  spoils,  in  this  way.  There  was  no  harm,  however,  in 
carrying  a  doctor's  powder  in  his  pocket,  or  in  amusing  him 
self  with  shooting  at  a  mark,  as  he  had  often  done  before.  If 
the  old  gentleman  had  these  fancies,  it  was  as  well  to  humor 
him  So  he  thanked  old  Doctor  Kittredge,  and  shook  his 
hand  warmly  as  he  left  him. 

"  The  fellow's  hand  did  not  tremble,  nor  his  color  change," 
the  Doctor  said,  as  he  watched  him  walking  away.  "  He  is 
one  of  the  right  sort," 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

EPISTOLARY. 

Mr.  Langdon  to  the  Professor. 

MY  DEAR  PROFESSOR, — 

You  were  kind  enough  to  promise  me  that  you  would  assist 
me  in  any  professional  or  scientific  investigations  in  which  I 
might  become  engaged.  I  have  of  late  become  deeply  inter 
ested  in  a  class  of  subjects  which  present  peculiar  difficulty, 
and  I  must  exercise  the  privilege  of  questioning  you  on  some 
points  upon  which  I  desire  information  I  cannot  otherwise  ob 
tain.  I  would  not  trouble  you,  if  I  could  find  any  person  or 
books  competent  to  enlighten  me  on  some  of  these  singular 
matters  which  have  so  excited  me.  The  leading  doctor  here 
is  a  shrewd,  sensible  man,  but  not  versed  in  the  curiosities  of 
medical  literature. 

I  proceed  with  your  leave,  to  ask  a  considerable  number 
of  questions, — hoping  to  get  answers  to  some  of  them,  at 
least. 

Is  there  any  evidence  that  human  beings  can  be  infected 
or  wrought  upon  by  poisons,  or  otherwise,  so  that  they  shall 
manifest  any  of  the  peculiarities  belonging  to  beings  of  a 
lower  nature?  Can  such  peculiarities  be  transmitted  by  in 
heritance?  Is  there  anything  to  countenance  the  stories, 
long  and  widely  current,  about  the  "  evil  eye  "  ?  or  is  it  a  mere 
fancy  that  such  a  power  belongs  to  any  human  being  ?  Have 
you  any  personal  experience  as  to  the  power  of  fascination 
said  to  be  exercised  by  certain  animals  ?  What  can  you  make 
of  those  circumstantial  statements  we  have  seen  in  the  papers 
of  children  forming  mysterious  friendships  with  ophidians 
of  different  species,  sharing  their  food  with  them,  and  seeming 
to  be  under  some  subtile  influence  exercised  by  those  crea 
tures?  Have  you  read,  critically,  Coleridge's  poem  of 
"  Christabel,"  and  Keat's  "  Lamia  "  ?  If  so,  can  you  under 
stand  them,  or  find  any  physiological  foundation  for  the 
story  of  either? 

161 


162  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

There  is  another  set  of  questions  of  a  different  nature  I 
should  like  to  ask,  but  it  is  hardly  fair  to  put  so  many  on  a 

"  single  sheet.  There  is  one,  however,  you  must  answer.  Do 
you  think  there  may  be  predispositions,  inherited  or  in 
grafted,  but  at  any  rate  constitutional,  which  shall  take  out 
certain  apparently  voluntary  determinations  from  the  con- 

/  trol  of  the  will,  and  leave  them  as  free  from  moral  responsi- 

i1  bility  as  the  instincts  of  the  lower  animals  ?  Do  you  not  think 

'   there  may  be  a  crime  which  is  not  a  sin  ? 

Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  troubling  you  with  such  a  list 
of  notes  of  interrogation.  There  are  some  very  strange  things 
going  on  here  in  this  place,  country  town  as  it  is.  Country 
life  is  apt  to  be  dull ;  but  when  it  once  gets  going  it  beats  the 
city  hollow  because  it  gives  its  whole  mind  to  what  it  is 
about.  These  rural  sinners  make  terrible  work  with  the  mid 
dle  of  the  Decalogue,  when  they  get  started.  However,  I  hope 
I  shall  live  through  my  year's  school-keeping  without  catas 
trophes,  though  there  are  queer  doings  about  me  which  puzzle 
me  and  might  scare  some  people.  If  anything  should  hap 
pen,  you  will  be  one  of  the  first  to  hear  of  it,  no  doubt.  But 
I  trust  not  to  help  out  the  editors  of  the  "  Eockland  Weekly 
Universe  "  with  an  obituary  of  the  late  lamented,  who  signed 
himself  in  life 

Your  friend  and  pupil, 

BERNARD  C.  LANGDON. 

The  Professor  to  Mr.  Langdon. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  LANGDOX, — 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  find  no  answer  from  your  country 
friends  to  the  curious  questions  you  put.  They  belong  to  that 
J$  middle  region  between,  science  and  poetry  which  sensible  men, 
as  they  are  called,  are  very  shy  of  meddling  with.  Some  peo 
ple  think  that  truth  and  gold  are  always  to  be  washed  for; 
but  the  wiser  sort  are  of  opinion,  that,  unless  there  are  so 
many  grains  to  the  peck  of  sand  or  nonsense  respectively,  it 
does  not  pay  to  wash  for  either,  so  long  as  one  can  find  any 
thing  else  to  do.  I  don't  doubt  there  is  some  truth  in  the 
phenomena  of  animal  magnetism,  for  instance ;  but  when  you 
ask  me  to  cradle  for  it,  I  tell  you  that  the  hysteric  girls  cheat 
so,  and  tHe  professionals  are  such  a  set  of  pickpockets,  that 
I  can  do  something  better  than  hunt  for  the  grains  of  truth 


EPISTOLARY.  163 

among  their  tricks  and  lies.  Do  you  remember  what  I  used 
to  say  in  my  lectures? — or  were  you  asleep  just  then,  or  cut 
ting  your  initials  on  the  rail  ?  (You  see  I  can  ask  questions, 
my  young  friend.)  Leverage  is  everything, — was  what  I 
used  to  say; — don't  begin  to  pry  till  you  have  got  the  long 
arm  on  your  side. 

To  please  you,  and  satisfy  your  doubts  as  far  as  possible, 
I  have  looked  into  the  old  books, — into  Schenckius  and 
Turner  and  Kenelm  Digby  and  the  rest,  where  I  have  found 
plenty  of  curious  stories  which  you  must  take  for  what  they 
are  worth. 

Your  first  question  I  can  answer  in  the  affirmative  upon 
pretty  good  authority.  Mizaldus  tells,  in  his  "  Memorabilia," 
the  well-known  story  of  the  girl  fed  on  poisons,  who  was  sent 
by  the  king  of  the  Indies  to  Alexander  the  Great.  "  When 
Aristotle  saw  her  eyes  sparkling  and  snapping  like  those  of 
serpents,  he  said,  l  Look  out  for  yourself,  Alexander !  this  is 
a  dangerous  companion  for  you ! ' '  — and  sure  enough,  the 
young  lady  proved  to  be  a  very  unsafe  person  to  her  friends. 
Cardanus  gets  a  story  from  Avicenna,  of  a  certain  man  bit 
by  a  serpent,  who  recovered  of  his  bite,  the  snake  dying  there 
from.  This  man  afterwards  had  a  daughter  whom  venomous 
serpents  could  not  harm,  though  she  had  a  fatal  power  over 
them. 

I  suppose  you  may  remember  the  statements  of  old  authors 
about  lycanthropy,  the  disease  in  which  men  took  on  the 
nature  and  aspects  of  wolves.  Aetius  and  Paulus,  both  men 
of  authority,  describe  it.  Altomaris  gives  a  horrid  case;  and 
Fincelius  mentions  one  occurring  as  late  as  1541,  the  subject 
of  which  was  captured,  still  insisting  that  he  was  a  wolf,  only 
that  the  hair  of  his  hide  was  turned  in !  Versipelles,  it  may 
be  remembered,  was  the  Latin  name  for  these  "  were-wolves." 

As  for  the  cases  where  rabid  persons  have  barked  and  bit 
like  dogs,  there  are  plenty  of  such  on  record. 

More  singular,  or  at  least  more  rare,  is  the  account  given 
by  Andreas  Baccius,  of  a  man  who  was  struck  in  the  hand 
by  a  cock,  with  his  beak,  and  who  died  on  the  third  day 
thereafter,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  fighting-cock,  to  the 
great  horror  of  the  spectators. 

As  to  impressions  transmitted  at  a  very  early  period  of 
existence,  everyone  knows  the  story  of  King  James's  fear  of  a 
naked  sword,  and  the  way  it  is  accounted  for.  Sir  Kenelm 


164  ELSIE 

Digby  says, — "I  remember  when  he  dubbed  me  Knight,  in 
the  ceremony  of  putting  the  point  of  a  naked  sword  upon  my 
shoulder,  he  could  not  endure  to  look  upon  it,  but  turned  his 
face  another  way,  insomuch,  that,  in  lieu  of  touching  my 
shoulder,  he  had  almost  thrust  the  point  into  my  eyes,  had  not 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  guided  his  hand  aright."  It  is  he, 
too,  who  tells  the  story  of  the  mulberry  mark  upon  the  neck  of 
a  certain  lady  of  high  condition,  which  "  every  year,  in  mul 
berry  season,  did  swell,  grow  big,  and  itch."  And  Gaffarel 
mentions  the  case  of  a  girl  born  with  the  figure  of  a  fish  on 
one  of  her  limbs,  of  which  the  wonder  was,  that,  when  the 
girl  did  eat  fish,  this  mark  put  her  to  sensible  pain.  But 
there  is  no  end  to  cases  of  this  kind,  and  I  could  give  some 
of  recent  date,  if  necessary,  lending  a  certain  plausibility  at 
least  to  the  doctrine  of  transmitted  impressions. 

I  never  saw  a  distinct  case  of  evil  eye,  though  I  have  seen 
eyes  so  bad  that  they  might  produce  strange  effects  on  very 
sensitive  natures.  But  the  belief  in  it  under  various  names, 
fascination,  jettatura,  etc.,  is  so  permanent  and  universal, 
from  Egypt  to  Italy,  and  from  the  days  of  Solomon  to  those 
of  Ferdinand  of  Naples,  that  there  must  be  some  peculiarity, 
to  say  the  least,  on  which  the  opinion  is  based.  There  is  very 
strong  evidence  that  some  such  power  is  exercised  by  certain 
of  the  lower  animals.  Thus,  it  is  stated  on  good  authority 
that  "  almost  every  animal  becomes  panic-struck  at  the  sight 
of  the  rattlesnake,  and  seems  at  once  deprived  of  the  power 
of  motion,  or  the  exercise  of  its  usual  instinct  of  self-preserva 
tion."  Other  serpents  seem  to  share  this  power  of  fascina 
tion,  as  the  Cobra  and  the  Bucephalus  Capensis.  Some  think 
that  it  is  nothing  but  fright ;  others  attribute  it  to  the 

"strange  powers  that  lie 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye,"— 

as  Churchill  said,  speaking  of  Garrick. 

You  ask  me  about  those  mysterious  and  frightful  in 
timacies  between  children  and  serpents,  of  which  so  many 
instances  have  been  recorded.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  what 
to  make  of  them.  I  have  seen  several  such  accounts  in 
recent  papers,  but  here  is  one  published  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  which  is  as  striking  as  any  of  the  more  modern 
ones : — 

"  Mr.  Herbert  Jones  of  Monmouth,  when  he  was  a  little 


EPISTOLARY.  165 

Boy,  was  used  to  eat  his  Milk  in  a  Garden  in  the  Morning, 
and  was  no  sooner  there,  but  a  large  Snake  always  came,  and 
eat  out  of  the  Dish  with  him,  and  did  so  for  a  considerable 
time,  till  one  Morning,  he  striking  the  Snake  on  the  Head, 
it  hissed  at  him.  Upon  which  he  told  his  Mother  that  the 
Baby  (for  so  he  call'd  it)  cry'd  Hiss  at  him.  His  Mother  had 
it  kill'd,  which  occasioned  him  a  great  Fit  of  Sickness,  and 
'twas  thought  would  have  dy'd,  but  did  recover." 

There  was  likewise  one  "  William  Writtle,  condemned  at 
Maidston  Assizes  for  a  double  murder,  told  a  Minister  that 
was  with  him  after  he  was  condemned,  that  his  mother  told 
him,  that  when  he  was  a  Child,  there  crept  always  to  him  a 
Snake,  wherever  she  laid  him.  Sometimes  she  would  convey 
him  up  Stairs,  and  leave  him  never  so  little,  she  should  be 
sure  to  find  a  Snake  in  the  Cradle  with  him,  but  never  per 
ceived  it  did  him  any  harm." 

One  of  the  most  striking  alleged  facts  connected  with  the 
mysterious  relation  existing  between  the  serpent  and  the 
human  species  is  the  influence  which  the  poison  of  the 
Crotalus,  taken  internally,  seemed  to  produce  over  the  moral 
faculties,  in  the  experiments  instituted  by  Dr.  Hering  at 
Surinam.  There  is  something  frightful  in  the  disposition 
of  certain  ophidians,  as  the  whip-snake,  which  darts  at  the 
eyes  of  cattle  without  any  apparent  provocation  or  other 
motive.  It  is  natural  enough  that  the  evil  principle  should 
have  been  represented  in  the  form  of  a  serpent,  but  it  is 
strange  to  think  of  introducing  it  into  a  human  being  like 
cox-pox  by  vaccination. 

You  know  all  about  the^Psylli,  or  ancient  serpent-tamers, 
I  suppose.  Savary  gives  an  account  of  the  modern  serpent- 
tamers  in  his  "  Letters  on  Egypt."  These  modern  jugglers 
are  in  the  habit  of  making  the  venomous  Naja  counterfeit 
death,  lying  out  straight  and  stiff,  changing  it  into  a  rod, 
as  the  ancient  magicians  did  with  their  serpents,  (probably 
the  same  animal,)  in  the  time  of  Moses. 

I  am  afraid  I  cannot  throw  much  light  on  "  Christabel " 
or  "  Lamia  "  by  any  criticism  I  can  offer.  Geraldine,  in  the 
former,  seems  to  be  simply  a  malignant  witch-woman  with  the 
evil  eye,  but  with  no  absolute  ophidian  relationship.  Lamia 
is  a  serpent  transformed  by  magic  into  a  woman.  The  idea 
of  both  is  mythological,  and  not  in  any  sense  physiological. 
Some  women  unquestionably  suggest  the  image  of  serpents; 


166  ELSIE    VENNER. 

men  rarely  or  never.    I  have  been  struck,  like  many  others, 
with  the  ophidian  head  and  eye  of  the  famous  Rachel. 

Your  question  about  inherited  predispositions,  as  limiting 
the  sphere  of  the  will,  and,  consequently,  of  moral  account 
ability,  opens  a  very  wide  range  of  speculation.  I  can  give 
you  only  a  brief  abstract  of  my  own  opinions  on  this  delicate 
fand  difficult  subject.  Crime  and  sin,  being  the  preserves  of 
two  great  organized  interests,  have  been  guarded  against  all 
reforming  poachers  with  as  great  jealousy  as  the  Royal 
Forests.  It  is  so  easy  to  hang  a  troublesome  fellow !  It  is  so 
much  simpler  to  consign  a  soul  to  perdition,  or  say  masses, 
for  money,  to  save  it,  than  to  take  the  blame  on  ourselves  for 
letting  it  grow  up  in  neglect  and  run  to  ruin  for  want  of  hu- 
v  manizing  influences !  They  hung  poor,  crazy  Bellingham  for 
shooting  Mr.  Perceval.  The  ordinary  of  Newgate  preached  to 
women  who  were  to  swing  at  Tyburn  for  a  petty  theft  as  if 
they  were  worse  than  other  people, — just  as  though  he  would 
not  have  been  a  pickpocket  or  shoplifter,  himself,  if  he  had 
been  born  in  a  den  of  thieves  and  bred  up  to  steal  or  starve! 
i  The  English  law  never  began  to  get  hold  of  the  idea  that  a 
j  crime  was  not  necessarily  a  sin,  till  Hadfield,  who  thought  he 
| was  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  was  tried  for  shooting  at  George 
ithe  Third; — lucky  for  him  that  he  did  not  hit  his  Majesty ! 

It  is  very  singular  that  we  recognize  all  the  bodily  defects 
that  unfit  a  man  for  military  service,  and  all  the  intellectual 
ones  that  limit  his  range  of  thought,  but  always  talk  at  him 
as  if  all  his  moral  powers  were  perfect.  I  suppose  we  must 
punish  evil-doers  as  we  extirpate  vermin;  but  I  don't  know 
that  we  have  any  more  right  to  judge  them  than  we  have  to 
judge  rats  and  mice,  which  are  just  as  good  as  cats  and 
weasels,  though  we  think  it  necessary  to  treat  them  as 
criminals. 

The  limitations  of  human  responsibility  have  never  been 
properly  studied,  unless  it  be  by  the  phrenologists.  You 
know  from  my  lectures  that  I  consider  phrenology,  as  taught, 
a  pseudo-science,  and  not  a  branch  of  positive  knowledge; 
but,  for  all  that,  we  owe  it  an  immense  debt.  It  has  melted 
the  world's  conscience  in  its  crucible,  and  cast  it  in  a  new 
mold,  with  features  less  like  those  of  Moloch  and  more  like 
those  of  humanity.  If  it  has  failed  to  demonstrate  its 
system  of  special  correspondences,  it  has  proved  that  there 
are  fixed  relations  between  organization  and  mind  and 


EPISTOLARY.  167 

character.  It  has  brought  out  that  great  doctrine  of  moral 
insanity,  which  has  done  more  to  make  men  charitable  and 
soften  legal  and  theological  barbarism  than  any  one  doctrine 
that  I  can  think  of  since  the  message  of  peace  and  good-will 
to  men. 

Automatic  action  in  the  moral  world;  the  reflex  movement 
which  seems  to  be  self-determination,  and  has  been  hanged 
and  howled  at  as  such  (metaphorically)  for  nobody  knows 
how  many  centuries :  until  somebody  shall  study  this  as 
Marshall  Hall  has  studied  reflex  nervous  action  in  the  bodily 
system,  I  would  not  give  much  for  men's  judgments  of  each 
others'  character.  Shut  up  the  robber  and  the  defaulter,  we 
must.  But  what  if  your  oldest  boy  had  been  stolen  from  his 
cradle  and  bred  in  a  North-Street  cellar?  What  if  you  are 
drinking  a  little  too  much  wine  and  smoking  a  little  too  much 
tobacco,  and  your  son  takes  after  you,  and  so  your  poor  grand 
son's  brain  being  a  little  injured  in  physical  texture,  he  loses 
the  fine  moral  sense  on  which  you  pride  yourself,  and  doesn't 
see  the  difference  between  signing  another  man's  name  to  a 
draft  and  his  own? 

I  suppose  the  study  of  automatic  action  in  the  moral  world 
(you  see  what  I  mean  through  the  apparent  contradiction  of 
terms)  may  be  a  dangerous  one  in  the  view  of  many  people. 
It  is  liable  to  abuse,  no  doubt.  People  are  always  glad  to 
get  hold  of  anything  which  limits  their  responsibility.  But 
remember  that  our  moral  estimates  come  down  to  us  from 
ancestors  who  hanged  children  for  stealing  forty  shillings7 
worth,  and  sent  their  souls  to  perdition  for  the  sin  of  being 
born, — who  punished  the  unfortunate  families  of  suicides, 
and  in  their  eagerness  for  justice  executed  one  innocent  per 
son  every  three  years,  on  the  average,  as  Sir  James  Mackin 
tosh  tells  us. 

I  do  not  know  in  what  shape  the  practical  question  may 
present  itself  to  you,  but  I  will  tell  you  my  rule  in  life,  and  I 
think  you  will  find  it  a  good  one.  Treat  bad  men  exactly  as 
if  they  were  insane.  They  are  in-sane,  out  of  health,  morally. 
Reason,  which  is  food  to  sound  minds,  is  not  tolerated,  still 
less  assimilated,  unless  administered  with  the  greatest  cau 
tion;  perhaps,  not  at  all.  Avoid  collision  with  them,  so  far 
as  you  honorably  can ;  keep  your  temper,  if  you  can, — for  one 
angry  man  is  as  good  as  another ;  restrain  them  from  violence, 
promptly,  completely,  and  with  the  least  possible  injury,  just 


168  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

as  in  the  case  of  maniacs, — and  when  you  have  got  rid  of 
them,  or  got  them  tied  hand  and  foot  so  that  they  can  do  no 
mischief,  sit  down  and  contemplate  them  charitably,  remem 
bering  that  nine-tenths  of  their  perversity  comes  from  outside 
influences,  drunken  ancestors,  abuse  in  childhood,  bad  com 
pany,  from  which  you  have  happily  been  preserved,  and  for 
some  of  which  you,  as  a  member  of  society,  may  be  frac 
tionally  responsible.  I  think  also  that  there  are  special  in 
fluences  which  work  in  the  blood  like  ferments,  and  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  some  of  those  curious  old  stories  I  citied 
may  have  more  recent  parallels.  Have  you  ever  met  with 
any  cases  which  admitted  of  a  solution  like  that  which  I 
have  mentioned? 

Yours  very  truly, 


Bernard  Langdon  to  Philip  Staples. 

MY  DEAR  PHILIP, — 

I  have  been  for  some  months  established  in  this  place, 
turning  the  main  crank  of  the  machinery  for  the  manufactory 
of  accomplishments  superintended  by,  or  rather  worked  to  the 
profit  of,  a  certain  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  He  is  a  poor  wretch, 
with  a  little  thin  fishy  blood  in  his  body,  lean  and  flat,  long- 
armed  and  large-handed,  thick- jointed  and  thin-muscled, — 
you  know  those  unwholesome,  weak-eyed,  half-fed  creatures, 
that  look  not  fit  to  be  round  among  live  folks,  and  yet  not 
quite  dead  enough  to  bury.  If  you  ever  hear  of  my  being  in 
court  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  assault  and  battery,  you  may 
guess  that  I  have  been  giving  him  a  thrashing  to  settle  off  old 
scores;  for  he  is  a  tyrant,  and  has  come  pretty  near  killing 
his  principal  lady-assistant  with  overworking  her  and  keep 
ing  her  out  of  all  decent  privileges. 

Helen  Darley  is  this  lady's  name, — twenty-two  or  -three 
years  old,  I  should  think, — a  very  sweet,  pale  woman, — 
daughter  of  the  usual  country-clergyman, — thrown  on  her 
own  resources  from  an  early  age,  and  the  rest:  a  common 
story,  but  an  uncommon  person, — very.  All  conscience  and 
sensibility,  I  should  say, — a  cruel  worker, — no  kind  of  regard 
for  herself, — seems  as  fragile  and  supple  as  a  young  willow- 
shoot,  but  try  her  and  you  find  she  has  the  spring  in  her  of  a 
steel  cross-bow.  I  am  glad  I  happened  to  come  to  this  place, 


EPISTOLARY.  169 

if  it  were  only  for  her  sake.     I  have  saved  that  girl's  life;    • 
I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  if  I  had  pulled  her  out  of  the  fire  or 
water. 

Of  course  I'm  in  love  with  her,  you  say, — we  always  love 
those  whom  we  have  benefited — "  saved  her  life, — her  love  was 
the  reward  of  his  devotion,"  etc.,  etc.,  as  in  a  regular  set 
novel.  In  love,  Philip?  Well,  about  that, — I  love  Helen 
Darley — very  much:  there  is  hardly  anybody  I  love  so  well. 
What  a  noble  creature  she  is !  One  of  those  that  just  go  right 
on,  do  their  own  work  and  everybody  else's,  killing  themselves 
inch  by  inch  without  ever  thinking  about  it, — singing  and 
dancing  at  their  toil  when  they  begin,  worn  and  saddened 
after  a  while,  but  pressing  steadily  on,  tottering  by-and-by, 
and  catching  at  the  rail  by  the  way-side  to  help  them  lift  one 
foot  before  the  other,  and  at  last  falling,  face  down,  arms 
stretched  forward 

Philip,  my  boy,  do  you  know  I  am  the  sort  of  man  that 
locks  his  door  sometimes  and  cries  his  heart  out  of  his  eyes, — 
that  can  sob  like  a  woman  and  not  be  ashamed  of  it  ?  I  come 
of  fighting-blood  on  one  side,  you  know;  I  think  I  could  be 
savage  on  occasion.  But  I  am  tender, — more  and  more  ten 
der  as  I  come  into  my  fullness  of  manhood.  I  don't  like  to 
strike  a  man,  (laugh,  if  you  like, — I  know  I  hit  hard  when  I 
do  strike,) — but  what  I  can't  stand  is  the  sight  of  these  poor, 
patient,  toiling  women,  who  never  find  out  in  this  life  how 
good  they  are,  and  never  know  what  it  is  to  be  told  they  are 
angels  while  they  still  wear  the  pleasing  iiicumbrances  of 
humanity.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  these  cases.  To  / 
think  that  a  woman  is  never  to  be  a  woman  again,  whatever  | 
she  may  come  to  as  an  unsexed  angel, — and  that  she  should 
die  unloved!  Why  doe?  nbf  "somebody  come  and  carry  off  j 
this  noble  woman,  waiting  here  all  ready  to  make  a  man  \ 
happy  ?  Philip,  do  you  know  the  pathos  there  is  in  the  eyes  ! 
of  unsought  women,  oppressed  with  the  burden  of  an  inner 
life  unshared  ?  I  can  see  into  them  now  as  I  could  not  in 
those  earlier  days.  I  sometimes  think  their  pupils  dilate  on 
purpose  to  let  my  consciousness  glide  through  them;  indeed, 
I  dread  them,  I  come  so  close  to  the  nerve  of  the  soul  itself 
in  these  momentary  intimacies.  You  used  to  tell  me  I  was 
a  Turk, — that  my  heart  was  full  of  pigeon-holes,  with  accom 
modations  inside  for  a  whole  flock  of  doves.  I  don't  know 
but  I  am  still  as  Youngish  as  ever  in  my  ways, — Brigham- 


170  ELSIE    VENDER. 

Youngish,  I  mean;  at  any  rate,  I  always  want  to  give  a  little 
love  to  all  the  poor  things  that  cannot  have  a  whole  man 
to  themselves.  If  they  would  only  be  contented  with  a 
little! 

Here  now  are  two  girls  in  this  school  where  I  am  teaching. 
One  of  them,  Rosa  M.,  is  not  more  than  sixteen  years  old,  I 
think  they  say,  but  Nature  has  forced  her  into  a  tropical 
luxuriance  of  beauty,  as  if  it  were  July  with  her,  instead  of 
May.  I  suppose  it  is  all  natural, enough  that  this  girl  should 
like  a  young  man's  attention,  even  if  he  were  a  grave  school 
master,  but  the  eloquence  of  this  young  thing's  look  is  un 
mistakable, — and  yet  she  does  not  know  the  language  it  is 
talking, — they  none  of  them  do;  and  there  is  where  a  good 
many  poor  creatures  of  our  good-for-nothing  sex  are  mis 
taken.  There  is  no  danger  of  my  being  rash,  but  I  think  this 
girl  will  cost  somebody  his  life  yet.  'She  is  one  of  those 
women  men  make  a  quarrel  about  and  fight  to  the  death 
for, — the  old  feral  instinct,  you  know. 

Pray,  don't  think  I  am  lost  in  conceit,  but  there  is  another 
girl  here  who  I  begin  to  think  looks  with  a  certain  kindness 
on  me.  Her  name  is  Elsie  V.,  and  she  is  the  only  daughter 
and  heiress  of  an  old  family  in  this  place.  She  is  a  por 
tentous  and  almost  fearful  creature.  If  I  should  tell  you  all 
I  know  and  a  half  of  what  I  fancy  about  her,  you  would  tell 
me  to  get  my  life  insured  at  once.  Yet  she  is  the  most  pain 
fully  interesting  being, — so  handsome!  so  lonely! — for  she 
has  no  friends  among  the  girls,  and  sits  apart  from  them, — 
with  black  hair  like  the  flow  of  a  mountain-brook  after  a 
thaw,  with  a  low-browed,  scowling  beauty  of  face,  and  such 
eyes  as  were  never  seen  before,  I  really  believe,  in  any  human 
creature. 

Philip,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  this  Elsie.  There 
is  something  about  her  I  have  not  fathomed.  I  have  con 
jectures  which  I  could  not  utter  to  any  living  soul.  I  dare 
not  even  hint  the  possibilities  which  have  suggested  them 
selves  to  me.  This  I  will  say, — that  I  do  take  the  most  in 
tense  interest  in  this  young  person,  an  interest  much  more 
like  pity  than  love  in  its  common  sense.  If  what  I  guess  at 
is  true,  of  all  the  tragedies  of  existence  I  ever  knew  this  is  the 
saddest,  and  yet  so  full  of  meaning!  Do  not  ask  me  any 
questions, — I  have  said  more  than  I  meant  to  already ;  but  I 
am  involved  in  strange  doubts  and  perplexities, — in  dangers 


EPISTOLARY. 

too,  very  possibly, — and  it  is  a  relief  just  to  speak  ever  so 
guardedly  of  them  to  an  early  and  faithful  friend. 
Yours  ever, 

BERNARD. 

P.  S.  I  remember  you  had  a  copy  of  Fortunius  Licetus 
"  De  Monstris  "  among  your  old  books.  Can't  you  lend  it 
to  me  for  a  while  ?  I  am  curious,  and  it  will  amuse  me. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

OLD  SOPHY  CALLS  ON  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR. 

The  two  meeting-houses  which  faced  each  other  like  a 
pair  of  fighting-cocks  had  not  flapped  their  wings  or  crowed 
at  each  other  for  a  considerable  time.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  had  been  dyspeptic  and  low-spirited  of  late,  and 
was  too  languid  for  "controversy.  The  Reverend  Doctor 
Honeywood  had  been  very  busy  with  his  benevolent  associa 
tions,  and  had  discoursed  chiefly  on  practical  matters,  to 
the  neglect  of  special  doctrinal  subjects.  His  senior  deacon 
ventured  to  say  to  him  that  some  of  his  people  required  to 
be  reminded  of  the  great  fundamental  doctrine  of  the  worth- 
lessness  of  all  human  efforts  and  motives.  Some  of  them 
were  altogether  too  much  pleased  with  the  success  of  the 
Temperance  Society  and  the  Association  for  the  Relief  of 
the  Poor.  There  was  a  pestilent  heresy  about,  concerning 
the  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  a  good  conscience, — as 
if  anybody  ever  did  anything  which  was  not  to  be  hated, 
loathed,  despised,  and  condemned. 

The  old  minister  listened  gravely,  with  an  inward  smile, 
and  told  his  deacon  that  he  would  attend  to  his  suggestion. 
After  the  deacon  had  gone,  he  tumbled  over  his  manuscripts, 
until  at  length  he  came  upon  his  first-rate  old  sermon  on 
"  Human  Nature."  He  had  read  a  great  deal  of  hard  the 
ology,  and  had  at  last  reached  that  curious  state  which  is  so 
common  in  good  ministers, — that,  namely,  in  which  they 
contrive  to  switch  off  their  logical  faculties  on  the  narrow 
side-track  of  their  technical  dogmas,  while  the  great  freight- 
train  of  their  substantial  human  qualities  keeps  in  the  main 
highway  of  common-sense,  in  which  kindly  souls  are  always 
found  by  all  who  approach  them  by  their  human  side. 

The  Doctor  read  his  sermon  with  a  pleasant,  paternal  in 
terest  :  it  was  well  argued  from  his  premises.  Here  and 
there  he  dashed  his  pen  through  a  harsh  expression.  Now 
and  then  he  added  an  explanation  or  qualified  a  broad  state- 

172 


SOPHY    CALLS    ON    THE    REVEREND    DOCTOR.       173 

merit.  But  his  mind  was  on  the  logical  side-track,  and  he 
followed  the  chain  of  reasoning  without  fairly  perceiving; 
where  it  would  lead  him,  if  he  carried  it  into  real  life. 

He  was  just  touching  up  the  final  proposition,  when  his 
granddaughter,  Letty,  once  before  referred  to,  came  into  the 
room  with  her  smiling  face  and  lively  movement.  Miss 
Letty  or  Letitia  Forrester  was  a  city-bred  girl  of  some 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old,  who  was  passing  the  summer 
with  her  grandfather  for  the  sake  of  country  air  and  quiet. 
It  was  a  sensible  arrangement;  for,  having  the  promise  of 
figuring  as  a  belle  by-and-by,  and  being  a  little  given  to 
dancing,  and  having  a  voice  which  drew  a  pretty  dense  circle 
around  the  piano  when  she  sat  down  to  play  and  sing,  it 
was  hard  to  keep  her  from  being  carried  into  society  before 
her  time,  by  the  mere  force  of  mutual  attraction.  Fortu 
nately,  she  had  some  quiet  as  well  as  some  social  tastes,  and 
was  willing  enough  to  pass  two  or  three  of  the  summer 
months  in  the  country,  where  she  was  much  better  bestowed 
than  she  would  have  been  at  one  of  those  watering-places 
where  so  many  half -formed  girls  get  prematurely  hardened 
in  the  vice  of  self-consciousness. 

Miss  Letty  was  altogether  too  wholesome,  hearty,  and 
high-strung  a  young  girl  to  be  a  model,  according  to  the 
flat-chested  and  cachectic  pattern  which  is  the  classical  type 
of  certain  excellent  young  females,  often  the  subjects  of  bio 
graphical  memoirs.  But  the  old  minister  was  proud  of  his 
granddaughter  for  all  that.  She  was  so  full  of  life,  so  grace 
ful,  so  generous,  so  vivacious,  so  ready  always  to  do  all  she 
could  for  him  and  for  everybody,  so  perfectly  frank  in  her 
avowed  delight  in  the  pleasures  which  this  miserable  world 
offered  her  in  the  shape  of  natural  beauty,  of  poetry,  of 
music,  of  companionship,  of  books,  of  cheerful  cooperation 
in  the  tasks  of  those  about  her,  that  the  Reverend  Doctor 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  condemn  her  because  she 
was  deficient  in  those  particular  graces  and  that  signal  I 
other-worldliness  he  had  sometimes  noticed  in  feeble  young 
persons  suffering  from  various  chronic  diseases  which  im 
paired  their  vivacity  and  removed  them  from  the  range  of 
temptation. 

When  Letty,  therefore,  came  bounding  into  the  old  min 
ister's  study,  he  glanced  up  from  his  manuscript,  and,  as  his 
eye  fell  upon  her,  it  flashed  across  him  that  there  was  noth- 


174  ELSIE   VENNER. 

ing  so  very  monstrous  and  unnatural  about  the  specimen  of 
congenital  perversion  he  was  looking  at,  with  his  features 
opening  into  their  pleasantest  sunshine.  Technically,  ac 
cording  to  the  fifth  proposition  of  the  sermon  on  Human 
Nature,  very  bad,  no  doubt.  Practically,  according  to  the 
fact  before  him,  a  very  pretty  piece  of  the  Creator's  handi- 
worjs;,  body  and  soul.  Was  it  not  a  conceivable  thing  that 
the  divine  grace  might  have  shown  itself  in  different  forms 
in  a  fresh  young  girl  like  Letitia,  and  in  that  poor  thing  he 
had  visited  yesterday,  half -grown,  half -colored,  in  bed  for  the 
last  year  with  hip-disease  ?  Was  it  to  be  supposed  that  this 
healthy  young  girl,  with  life  throbbing  all  over  her,  could, 
without  a  miracle,  be  good  according  to  the  invalid  pattern 
and  formula? 

And  yet  there  were  mysteries  in  human  nature  which 
pointed  to  some  tremendous  perversion  of  its  tendencies, — 
to  some  profound,  radical  vice  of  moral  constitution,  native 
or  transmitted,  as  you  will  have  it,  but  positive,  at  any  rate, 
as  the  leprosy,  breaking  out  in  the  blood  of  races,  guard  them 
ever  so  carefully.  Did  he  not  know  the  case  of  a  young 
lady  in  Rockland,  daughter  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
place,  a  very  beautiful  and  noble  creature  to  look  at,  for 
whose  bringing-up  nothing  had  been  spared, — a  girl  who  had 
had  governesses  to  teach  her  at  the  house,  who  had  been 
indulged  almost  too  kindly, — a  girl  whose  father  had  given 
himself  up  to  her,  he  being  himself  a  pure  and  high-souled 
man? — and  yet  this  girl  was  accused  in  whispers  of  having 
been  on  the  very  verge  of  committing  a  fatal  crime;  she 
was  an  object  of  fear  to  all  who  knew  the  dark  hints  which 
had  been  let  fall  about  her,  and  there  were  some  that  be 
lieved Why,  what  was  this  but  an  instance  of  the  total 

obliquity  and  degeneration  of  the  moral  principle?  and  to 
what  could  it  be  owing,  but  to  an  innate  organic  tendency? 

"  Busy,  grandpapa  ?  "  said  Letty,  and  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  kissed  his  cheek  with  a  pair  of  lips  made  on 
purpose  for  that  little  function, — fine,  but  richly  turned  out, 
the  corners  tucked  in  with  a  finish  of  pretty  dimples,  the 
rose-bud  lips  of  girlhood's  June. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  his  granddaughter.  Nature 
swelled  up  from  his  heart  in  a  wave  that  sent  a  glow  to  his 
cheek  and  a  sparkle  to  his  eye.  But  it  is  very  hard  to  be 
interrupted  just  as  we  are  winding  up  a  string  of  proposi- 


SOPHY    CALLS    OTT   THE    REVEREND    DOCTOE.       175 

tions  with  the  grand  conclusion  which  is  the  statement  in 
brief  of  all  that  has  gone  before:  our  own  starting-point, 
into  which  we  have  been  trying  to  back  our  reader  or  listener 
as  one  backs  a  horse  into  the  shafts. 

"  Video  meliora,  proboque, — I  see  the  better,  and  approve 
it;  deteriora  sequor,  I  follow  after  the  worse;  'tis  that 
natural  dislike  to  what  is  good,  pure,  holy,  and  true,  that 
inrooted  selfishness,  totally  insensible  to  the  claims  of '' 

Here  the  worthy  man  was  interrupted  by  Miss  Letty. 

"  Do  come,  if  you  can,  grandpapa,"  said  the  young  girl ; 
"  here  is  a  poor  old  black  woman  wants  to  see  you  so  much !  " 

The  good  minister  was  as  kind-hearted  as  if  he  had  never 
groped  in  the  dust  and  ashes  of  those  cruel  old  abstractions  \ 
which  have  killed  out  so  much  of  the  world's  life  and  happi 
ness.  "  With  the  heart  man  believeth  unto  righteousness  " ; 
a  man's  love  is  the  measure  of  his  fitness  for  good  or  bad 
company  here  or  elsewhere.  Men  are  tattooed  with  their 
special  beliefs  like  so  many  South-Sea  Islanders ;  but  a  real 
human  heart,  with  Divine  love  in  it,  beats  with  the  same 
glow  under  all  the  patterns  of  all  earth's  thousand  tribes ! 

The  Doctor  sighed,  and  folded  the  sermon,  and  laid  the 
Quarto  Cruden  on  it.     Pie  rose  from  his  desk,  and,  looking 
once  more  at  the  young  girl's  face,  forgot  his  logical  con 
clusions,  and  said  to  himself  that  she  was  a  little  angel, — 
which  was  in  violent  contradiction  to  the  leading  doctrine  ' 
of  his  sermon  on  Human  Nature.     And  so  he  followed  her     V 
out  of  the  study  into  the  wide  entry  of  the  old-fashioned 
country-house. 

An  old  black  woman  sat  on  the  plain  oaken  settle  which 
humble  visitors  waiting  to  see  the  minister  were  wont  to 
occupy.  She  was  old,  but  how  old  it  would  be  very  hard 
to  guess.  She  might  be  seventy.  She  might  be  ninety.  One 
could  not  swear  she  was  not  a  hundred.  Black  women  re 
main  at  a  stationary  age  (to  the  eyes  of  white  people,  at 
least)  for  thirty  years.  They  do  not  appear  to  change  dur 
ing  this  period  any  more  than  so  many  Trenton  trilobites. 
Bent  up,  wrinkled,  yellow-eyed,  with  long  upper-lip,  pro 
jecting  jaws,  retreating  chin,  still  meek  features,  long  arms, 
large  flat  hands  with  uncolored  palms  and  slightly  webbed 
fingers,  it  was  impossible  not  to  see  in  this  old  creature  a 
hint  of  the  gradations  by  which  life  climbs  up  through  the 
lower  natures  to  the  highest  human  developments.  We  can- 


176  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

not  tell  such  old  women's  ages  because  we  do  not  understand 
the  physiognomy  of  a  race  so  unlike  our  own.  No  doubt 
they  see  a  great  deal  in  each  other's  faces  that  we  cannot, — 
changes  of  color  and  expression  as  real  as  our  own,  blushes 
and  sudden  betrayals  of  feeling, — just  as  these  two  canaries 
know  what  their  single  notes  and  short  sentences  and  full 
song  with  this  or  that  variation  mean,  though  it  is  a  mys 
tery  to  us  unplumed  mortals. 

This  particular  old  black  woman  was  a  striking  specimen 
of  her  class.  Old  as  she  looked,  her  eye  was  bright  and  know 
ing.  She  wore  a  red-and-yellow  turban,  which  set  off  her 
complexion  well,  and  hoops  of  gold  in  her  ears,  and  beads  of 
gold  about  her  neck,  and  an  old  funeral  ring  upon  her 
finger.  She  had  that  touching  stillness  about  her  which 
belongs  to  animals  that  wait  to  be  spoken  to  and  then  look 
up  with  a  kind  of  sad  humility. 

"Why,  Sophy!"  said  the  good  minister,  "is  this  you?" 

She  looked  up  with  the  still  expression  on  her  face.  "  It's 
oP  Sophy,"  she  said. 

"  Why,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  did  not  believe  you  could 
walk  so  far  as  this  to-  save  the  Union.  Bring  Sophy  a  glass 
of  wine,  Letty.  Wine's"  good 'for 'old  folks  like  Sophy  and 
me,  after  walking  a  good  way,  or  preaching  a  good  while." 

The  young  girl  stepped  into  the  back-parlor,  where  she 
found  the  great  pewter  flagon  in  which  the  wine  that  was  left 
after  each  communrofi-service  was  brought  to  the  minister's 
house.  With  much  toil  she  managed  to  tip  it  so  as  to  get 
a  couple  of  glasses  filled.  The  minister  tasted  his,  and  made 
old  Sophy  finish  hers. 

"  I  wan'  to  see  you  'n'  talk  wi'  you  all  alone,"  she  said 
presently. 

The  minister  got  up  and  led  the  way  towards  his  study. 
"  To  be  sure,"  he  said ;  he  had  only  waited  for  her  to  rest 
a  moment  before  he  asked  her  into  the  library.  The  young 
girl  took  her  gently  by  the  arm,  and  helped  her  feeble  steps 
along  the  passage.  When  they  reached  the  study,  she 
smoothed  the  cushion  of  a  rocking-chair,  and  made  the  old 
wroman  sit  down  in  it.  Then  she  tripped  lightly  away,  and 
left  her  alone  with  the  minister. 

Old  Sophy  was  a  member  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Honey- 
wood's  church.  She  had  been  put  through  the  necessary 
confessions  in  a  tolerably  satisfactory  manner.  To  be  sure, 


SOPHY    CALLS    ON   THE   REVEREND    DOCTOR.       1 

as  her  grandfather  had  been  a  cannibal  chief,  according  to 
the  common  story,  and,  at  any  rate,  a  terrible  wild  savage, 
and  as  her  mother  retained  to  the  last  some  of  the  prejudices 
of  her  early  education,  there  was  a  heathen  flavor  in  her 
Christianity,  which  had  often  scandalized  the  elder  of  the 
minister's  two  deacons.  But  the  good  minister  had  smoothed 
matters  over:  had  explained  that  allowances  were  to  be  made 
for  those  who  had  been  long  sitting  without  the  gate  of 
Zion, — that,  no  doubt,  a  part  of  the  curse  which  descended 
to  the  children  of  Ham  consisted  in  "  having  the  understand 
ing  darEene"d7r*  as  well  as  the  skin, — and  so  had  brought  his 
suspicious  senior  deacon  to  tolerate  old  Sophy  as  one  of 
the  communion  of  fellow-sinners. 


Poor  things !  How  little  we  know  the  simple  notions 

with  which  these  rudiments  of  souls  are  nourished  by  the 
Divine  Goodness!  Did  not  Mrs.  Professor  come  home  this 
very  blessed  morning  with  a  story  of  one  of  her  old  black 
women  ? 

"  And  how  do  you  feel  to-day,  Mrs.  Robinson  ? " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  this  singing  in  my  head  all  the 
time."  (What  doctors  call  tinnitus  aurium.) 

"  She's  got  a  cold  in  the  head,"  said  old  Mrs.  Rider. 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear !  Whatever  I'm  thinking  about,  it's  all 
this  singing,  this  music.  When  I'm  thinking  of  the  dear 
Redeemer,  it  all  turns  into  this  singing  and  music.  When 
the  clark  came  to  see  me,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  couldn't  cure 
me,  and  he  said,  No, — it  was  the  Holy  Spirit  in  me,  singing 
to  me;  and  all  the  time  I  hear  this  beautiful  music,  and  it's 
the  Holy  Spirit  a-singing  to  me " 


The  good  man  waited  for  Sophy  to  speak;  but  she  did  not 
open  her  lips  as  yet. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  troubled  in  mind  or  body,"  he  said 
to  her  at  length,  finding  she  did  not  speak. 

The  poor  old  woman  took  out  a  white  handkerchief,  and 
lifted  it  to  her  black  face.  She  could  not  say  a  word  for 
her  tears  and  sobs. 

The  minister  would  have  consoled  her;  he  was  used  to 
tears,  and  could  in  most  cases  withstand  their  contagion 
manfully;  but  something  choked  his  voice  suddenly,  and 


178  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

when  lie  called  upon  it  he  got  no  answer,  but  a  tremulous 
movement  of  the  muscles,  which  was  worse  than  silence. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  It's  my  poor  girl,  my  darling,  my 
beauty,  my  baby,  that's  grown  up  to  be  a  woman;  she  will 
come  to  a  bad  end;  she  will  do  something  that  will  make 
them  kill  her  or  shut  her  up  all  her  life.  Oh,  Doctor, 
Doctor,  save  her,  pray  for  her!  It  a'n't  her  fault.  It  a'n't 
her  fault.  If  they  knew  all  that  I  know,  they  wouldn'  blame 
that  poor  child.  I  must  tell  you,  Doctor:  if  I  should  die, 
perhaps  nobody  else  would  tell  you.  Massa  Venner  can't 
talk  about  it.  Doctor  Kittredge  won't  talk  about  it.  No 
body  but  old  Sophy  to  tell  you,  Doctor;  and  old  Sophy  can't 
die  without  telling  you." 

The  kind  minister  soothed  the  poor  old  soul  with  those 
gentle,  quieting  tones  which  had  carried  peace  and  comfort 
to  so  many  chambers  of  sickness  and  sorrow,  to  so  many 
hearts  overburdened  by  the  trials  laid  upon  them. 

Old  Sophy  became  quiet  in  a  few  minutes,  and  proceeded 
to  tell  her  story.  She  told  it  in  the  low  half -whisper  which 
is  the  natural  voice  of  lips  oppressed  with  grief  and  fears; 
with  quick  glances  around  the  apartment  from  time  to  time, 
as  if  she  dreaded  lest  the  dim  portraits  on  the  walls  and 
the  dark  folios  on  the  shelves  might  overhear  her  words. 

It  was  not  one  of  those  conversations  which  a  third  person 
can  report  minutely,  unless  by  that  miracle  of  clairvoyance 
known  to  the  readers  of  stories  made  out  of  authors'  brains. 
Yet  its  main  character  can  be  imparted  in  a  much  briefer 
space  than  the  old  black  woman  took  to  give  all  its 
details. 

She  went  far  back  to  the  time  when  Dudley  Venner  was 
born, — she  being  then  a  middle-aged  woman.  The  heir  and 
hope  of  a  family  which  had  been  narrowing  down  as  if 
doomed  to  extinction,  he  had  been  surrounded  with  every 
care  and  trained  by  the  best  education  he  could  have  in 
New  England.  He  had  left  college,  and  was  studying  the 
profession  which  gentlemen  of  leisure  most  affect,  when  he 
fell  in  love  with  a  young  girl  left  in  the  world  almost  alone, 
as  he  was.  The  old  woman  told  the  story  of  his  young  love 
and  his  joyous  bridal  with  a  tenderness  which  had  some 
thing  more,  even,  than  her  family  sympathies  to  account 
for  it.  Had  she  not  hanging  over  her  bed  a  paper-cutting 


SOPHY    CALLS    ON   THE    KEVEREND    DOCTOR         179 

of  a  profile — jet  black,  but  not  blacker  than  the  face  it  rep 
resented — of  one  who  would  have  been  her  own  husband  in 
the  small  years  of  this  century,  if  the  vessel  in  which  he 
went  to  sea,  like  Jamie  in  the  ballad,  had  not  sailed  away 
and  never  come  back  to  land  ?  Had  she  not  her  bits  of  fur 
niture  stowed  away  which  had  been  got  ready  for  her  own 
wedding, — two  rocking-chairs,  one  worn  with  long  use,  one 
kept  for  him  so  long  that  it  had  grown  a  superstition  with 
her  never  to  sit  in  it, — and  might  he  not  come  back  yet, 
after  all?  Had  she  not  her  chest  of  linen  ready  for  her 
humble  house-keeping,  with  store  of  serviceable  huckaback 
and  piles  of  neatly  folded  kerchiefs,  wherefrom  tnTs  one  that 
showed  so  white  against  her  black  face  was  taken,  for  that 
she  knew  her  eyes  would  betray  her  in  "  the  presence  "  ? 

All  the  first  part  of  the  story  the  old  woman  told  tenderly, 
and  yet  dwelling  upon  every  incident  with  a  loving  pleasure. 
How  happy  this  young  couple  had  been,  what  plans  and  proj 
ects  of  improvement  they  had  formed,  how  they  lived  in 
each  other,  always  together,  so  young  and  fresh  and  beautiful 
as  she  remembered  them  in  that  one  early  summer  when  they 
walked  arm  in  arm  through  the  wilderness  of  roses  that  ran 
riot  in  the  garden, — she  told  of  this  as  loath  to  leave  it  and 
come  to  the  woe  that  lay  beneath. 

She  told  the  whole  story; — shall  I  repeat  it?  Not  now.  ' 
If,  in  the  course  of  relating  the  incidents  I  have  undertaken 
to  report,  it  tells  itself,  perhaps  this  will  be  better  than  to 
run  the  risk  of  producing  a  painful  impression  on  some  of 
those  susceptible  readers  whom  it  would  be  ill-advised  to 
disturb  or  excite,  when  they  rather  require  to  be  amused  • 
and  soothed.  In  our  pictures  of  life,  we  must  show  the 
flowering-out  of  terrible  growths  which  have  their  roots  deep, 
deep  underground.  Just  how  far  we  shall  lay  bare  the  un 
seemly  roots  themselves  is  a  matter  of  discretion  and  taste, 
in  which  none  of  us  are  infallible. 

The  old  woman  told  the  whole  story  of  Elsie,  of  her  birth, 
of  her  peculiarities  of  person  and  disposition,  of  the  passion 
ate  fears  and  hopes  with  which  her  father  had  watched  the 
course  of  her  development.  She  recounted  all  her  strange 
ways,  from  the  hour  when  she  first  tried  to  crawl  across  the 
carpet,  and  her  father's  look  as  she  worked  her  way  towards 
him.  With  the  memory  of  Juliet's  nurse  she  told  the  story 
of  her  teething,  and  how,  the  woman  to  whose  breast  she  had 


180  ELSIE    VENNER. 

clung  (tying  suddenly  about  that  time,  they  had  to  struggle 
hard  with  the  child  before  she  would  learn  the  accomplish 
ment  of  feeding  with  a  spoon.  And  so  of  her  fierce  plays 
and  fiercer  disputes  with  that  boy  who  had  been  her  com 
panion,  and  the  whole  scene  of  the  quarrel  when  she  struck 
him  with  those  sharp  white  teeth,  frightening  her,  old  Sophy, 
almost  to  death;  for,  as  she  said,  the  boy  would  have  died, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  old  Doctor's  galloping  over  as  fast 
as  he  could  gallop  and  burning  the  places  right  out  of  his 
arm.  Then  came  the  story  of  that  other  incident,  suf 
ficiently  alluded  to  already,  which  had  produced  such  an 
ecstasy  of  fright  and  left  such  a  nightmare  of  apprehension 
in  the  household.  And  so  the  old  woman  came  down  to  the 
present  time.  That  boy  she  never  loved  nor  trusted  was 
grown  to  a  dark,  dangerous-looking  man,  and  he  was  under 
their  roof.  He  wanted  to  marry  our  poor  Elsie,  and  Elsie 
hated  him,  and  sometimes  she  would  look  at  him  over  her 
shoulder  just  as  she  used  to  look  at  that  woman  she  hated ; 
and  she,  old  Sophy,  couldn't  sleep  for  thinking  she  should 
hear  a  scream  from  the  white  chamber  some  night  and  find 
him  in  spasms  such  as  that  woman  came  so  near  dying  with. 
And  then  there  was  something  about  Elsie  she  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of:  she  would  sit  and  hang  her  head  some 
times,  and  look  as  if  she  were  dreaming;  and  she  brought 
home  books  they  said  a  young  gentleman  up  at  the  great 
school  lent  her ;  and  once  she  heard  her  whisper  in  her  sleep, 
and  she  talked  as  young  girls  do  to  themselves  when  they're 
thinking  about  somebody  they  have  a  liking  for  and  think 
nobody  knows  it. 

She  finished  her  long  story  at  last.  The  minister  had 
listened  to  it  in  perfect  silence.  He  sat  still  even  when  she 
had  done  speaking, — still,  and  lost  in  thought.  It  was  a  very 
awkward  matter  for  him  to  have  a  hand  in.  Old  Sophy 
was  his  parishioner,  but  the  Venners  had  a  pew  in  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Fairweather's  meeting-house.  It  would  seem  that 
he,  Mr.  Fairweather,  was  the  natural  adviser  of  the  parties 
most  interested.  Had  he  sense  and  spirit  enough  to  deal 
with  such  people?  Was  there  enough  capital  of  humanity 
in  his  somewhat  limited  nature  to  furnish  sympathy  and  un 
shrinking  service  for  his  friends  in  an  emergency  ?  or  was  he 
too  busy  with  his  own  attacks  of  spiritual  neuralgia,  and 
too  much  occupied  with  taking  account  of  stock  of  his  own 


SOPHY    CALLS    ON   THE    REVEREND    DOCTOR        181 

thin-blooded  offenses,  to  forget  himself  and  his  personal  in 
terests  on  the  small  scale  and  the  large,  and  run  the  risk  of 
his  life,  if  need  were,  at  any  rate  give  himself  up  without 
reserve  to  the  dangerous  task  of  guiding  and  counseling 
these  distressed  and  imperiled  fellow-creatures? 

The  good  minister  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to 
call  and  talk  over  some  of  these  matters  with  Brother  Fair- 
weather, — for  so  he  would  call  him  at  times,  especially  if  his 
senior  deacon  were  not  within  earshot.  Having  settled  this 
point,  he  comforted  Sophy  with  a  few  words  of  counsel  and 
a  promise  of  coming  to  see  her  very  soon.  He  then  called 
his  man  to  put  the  old  white  horse  into  the  chaise  and  drive 
Sophy  back  to  the  mansion-house. 

When  the  Doctor  sat  down  to  his  sermon  again,  it  looked 
very  differently  from,  the  way  it  had  looked  at  the  moment 
he  had  left  it.  When  he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  did  not  feel 
quite  so  sure  practically  about  that  matter  of  the  utter 
natural  selfishness  of  everybody.  There  was  Letty,  now, 
seemed  to  take  a  very  unselfish  interest  in  that  old  black 
woman,  and  indeed  in  poor  people  generally;  perhaps  it 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  she  was  always  thinking 
of  other  people.  He  thought  he  had  seen  other  young  per 
sons  naturally  unselfish,  thoughtful  for  others;  it  seemed  to 
be  a  family  trait  in  some  he  had  known. 

But  most  of  all  he  was  exercised  about  this  poor  girl 
whose  story  Sophy  had  been  telling.  If  what  the  old  woman 
believed  was  true, — and  it  had  too  much  semblance  of  prob 
ability, — what  became  of  his  theory  of  ingrained  moral  ob 
liquity  applied  to  such  a  case?  If  by  the  visitation  of  God 
a  person  receives  any  injury  which  impairs  the  intellect  or  the 
moral  perceptions,  is  it  not  monstrous  to  judge  such  a  per 
son  by  our  common  working  standards  of  right  and  wrong? 
Certainly,  everybody  will  answer,  in  cases  where  there  is  a 
palpable  organic  change  brought  about,  as  when  a  blow  on 
the  head  produces  insanity.  Fools!  How  long  will  it  be 
before  we  shall  learn  that  for  every  wound  which  betrays 
itself  to  the  sight  by  a  scar,  there  are  a  thousand  unseen 
mutilations  that  cripple,  each  of  them,  some  one  or  more  of 
our  highest  faculties  ?  If  what  Sophy  told  and  believed  was  *" 
the  real  truth,  what  prayers  could  be  agonizing  enough, 
what  tenderness  could  be  deep  enough,  for  this  poor,  lost, 
blighted,  hapless,  blameless  child  of  misfortune,  struck  by 


182  ELSIE  VENNEK. 

such  a  doom  as  perhaps  no  living  creature  in  all  the  sister 
hood  of  humanity  shared  with  her? 

The  minister  thought  these  matters  over  until  his  mind 
was  bewildered  with  doubts  and  tossed  to  and  fro  on  that 
stormy  deep  of  thought  heaving  forever  beneath  the  conflict 
of  windy  dogmas.  He  laid  by  his  old  sermon.  He  put  back 
a  pile  of  old  commentators  with  their  eyes  and  mouths  and 
hearts  full  of  dust  of  the  schools.  Then  he  opened  the  book 
of  Genesis  at  the  eighteenth  chapter  and  read  that  remark 
able  argument  of  Abraham's  with  his  Maker,  in  which  he 
boldly  appeals  to  first  principles.  He  took  as  his  text, 
"  Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right  ? "  and  began 
yto  write  his  sermon,  afterwards  so  famous, — "  On  the  Ob- 
*ligations  of  an  Infinite  Creator  to  a  Finite  Creature." 

It  astonished  the  good  people,  who  had  been  accustomed  so 
long  to  repeat  mechanically  their  Oriental  hyperboles  of 
self-abasement,  to  hear  their  worthy  minister  maintaining 
that  the  dignified  attitude  of  the  old  Patriarch,  insisting  on 
what  was  reasonable  and  fair  with  reference  to  his  fellow- 
creatures,  was  really  much  more  respectful  to  his  Maker,  and 
a  great  deal  manlier  and  more  to  his  credit,  than  if  he  had 
yielded  the  whole  matter,  and  pretended  that  men  had  not 
rights  as  well  as  duties.  The  same  logic  which  had  carried 
him  to  certain  conclusions  with  reference  to  human  nature, 
this  same  irresistible  logic  carried  him  straight  on  from  his 
text  until  he  arrived  at  those  other  results,  which  not  only 
astonished  his  people,  as  was  said,  but  surprised  himself. 
He  went  so  far  in  defense  of  the  rights  of  man,  that  he  put 
his  foot  into  several  heresies,  for  which  men  had  been  burned 
so  often,  it  was  time,  if  it  ever  could  be,  to  acknowledge  the 
demonstration  of  the  argumentum  ad  ignem.  He  did  not 
•  believe  in  the  responsibilities  of  idiots.  He  did  not  believe 
a  new-born  infant  was  morally  answerable  for  other  people's 
acts.  He  thought  a  man  with  a  crooked  spine  would  never 
be  called  to  account  for  not  walking  erect.  He  thought 
if  the  crook  was  in  his  brain,  instead  of  his  back,  he  could 
not  fairly  be  blamed  for  any  consequence  of  this  natural  de 
fect,  whatever  lawyers  or  divines  might  call  it.  He  argued, 
that,  if  a  person  inherited  a  perfect  mind,  body,  and  dis 
position,  and  had  perfect  teaching  from  infancy,  that  person 
could  do  nothing  more  than  keep  the  moral  law  perfectly, 
but  supposing  that  the  Creator  allows  a  person  to  be  born  with 


SOPHY    CALLS    ON    THE    REVEREND    DOCTOR.       183 

an  hereditary  or  ingrafted  organic  tendency,  and  then  puts 
this  person  into  the  hands  of  teachers  incompetent  or  posi 
tively  bad,  is  not  what  is  called  sin  or  transgression  of  the 
law  necessarily  involved  in  the  premises?  Is  not  a  Creator 
bound  to  guard  his  children  against  the  ruin  which  inherited 
ignorance  might  entail  on  them  ?  Would  it  be  fair  for  a 
parent  to  put  into  a  child's  hands  the  title-deeds  to  all  its 
future  possessions,  and  a  bunch  of  matches?  Are  not  men 
children,  nay,  babes,  in  the  eye  of  Omniscience? — The  min 
ister  grew  bold  in  his  questions.  Had  not  he  as  good  right 
to  ask  questions  as  Abraham? 

This  was  the  dangerous  vein  of  speculation  in  which  the 
Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood  found  himself  involved,  as  a 
consequence  of  the  suggestions  forced  upon  him  by  old 
Sophy's  communication.  The  truth  was,  the  good  man  had 
got  so  humanized  by  mixing  up  with  other  people  in  various 
benevolent  schemes,  that,  the  very  moment  he  could  escape 
from  his  old  scholastic  abstractions,  he  took  the  side  of  hu 
manity  instinctively,  just  as  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  did, 
— all  honor  be  to  the  noble  old  Patriarch  for  insisting  on  the 
worth  of  an  honest  man,  and  making  the  best  terms  he  could 
for  a  very  ill-conditioned  metropolis,  which  might  possibly, 
however,  have  contained  ten  righteous  people,  for  whose  sake 
it  should  be  spared! 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  he  was  in  a  singular 
and  seemingly  self -contradictory  state  of  mind  when  he  took 
his  hat  and  cane  and  went  forth  to  call  on  his  heretical 
brother.  The  old  minister  took  it  for  granted  that  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Fairweather  knew  the  private  history  of  his  par 
ishioner's  family.  He  did  not  reflect  that  there  are  griefs 
men  never  put  into  words, — that  there  are  fears  which  must 
not  be  spoken, — intimate  matters  of  consciousness  which 
must  be  carried,  as  bullets  which  have  been  driven  deep  into 
the  living  tissues  are  sometimes  carried,  for  a  whole  lifetime, 
• — encysted  griefs,  if  we  may  borrow  the  chirurgeon's  term, 
never  to  be  reached,  never  to  be  seen,  never  to  be  thrown 
out,  but  to  go  into  the  dust  with  the  frame  that  bore  them 
about  with  it,  during  long  years  of  anguish,  known  only  to 
the  sufferer  and  his  Maker.  Dudley  Vernier  had  talked  with 
his  minister  about  this  child  of  his.  But  he  had  talked  cau 
tiously,  feeling  his  way  for  sympathy,  looking  out  for  those 
indications  of  tact  and  judgment  which  would  warrant  him 


184  ELSIE  VENNEK. 

in  some  partial  communication,  at  least  of  the  origin  of  his 
doubts  and  fears,  and  never  finding  them. 

There  was  something  about  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather 
which  repressed  all  attempts  at  confidential  intercourse. 
What  this  something  was,  Dudley  Vernier  could  hardly  say; 
but  he  felt  it  distinctly,  and  it  sealed  his  lips.  He  never  got 
beyond  certain  generalities  connected  with  education  and 
religious  instructon.  The  minister  could  not  help  discover 
ing,  however,  that  there  were  difficulties  connected  with  this 
girl's  management,  and  he  heard  enough  outside  of  the  fam 
ily  to  convince  him  that  she  had  manifested  tendencies,  from 
an  early  age,  at  variance  with  the  theoretical  opinions  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  preaching,  and  in  a  dim  way  of  holding 
for  truth,  as  to  the  natural  dispositions  of  the  human  being. 

About  this  terrible  fact  of  congenital  obliquity  his  new  be 
liefs  began  to  cluster  as  a  center,  and  to  take  form  as  a 
crystal  around  its  nucleus.  Still,  he  might  perhaps 
have  struggled  against  them,  had  it  not  been  for  the  little 
Roman  Catholic  chapel  he  passed  every  Sunday,  on  his  way 
to  the  meeting-house.  Such  a  crowd  of  worshipers,  swarm 
ing  into  the  pews  like  bees,  filling  all  the  aisles,  running  over 
at  the  door  like  berries  heaped  too  full  in  the  measure, — 
some  kneeling  on  the  steps,  some  standing  on  the  side-walk, 
hats  off,  heads  down,  lips  moving,  some  looking  on  devoutly 
from  the  other  side  of  the  street!  Oh,  could  he  have  fol 
lowed  his  own  Bridget,  maid  of  all  work,  into  the  heart  of  that 
steaming  throng,  and  bowed  his  head  while  the  priests  in 
toned  their  Latin  prayers!  could  he  have  snuffed  up  the 
cloud  of  frankincense,  and  felt  that  he  was  in  the  great  ark 
which  holds  the  better  half  of  the  Christian  world,  while  all 
around  it  are  wretched  creatures,  some  struggling  against 
the  waves  in  leaky  boats,  and  some  on  ill-connected  rafts, 
and  some  with  their  heads  just  above  water,  thinking  to  ride 
out  the  flood  which  is  to  sweep  the  earth  clean  of  sinners, 
upon  their  own  private,  individual  life-preservers ! 

Such  was  the  present  state  of  mind  of  the  Reverend 
Chauncy  Fairweather,  when  his  clerical  brother  called  upon 
him  to  talk  over  the  questions  to  which  old  Sophy  had  called 
his  attention. 


CHAPTEE  XVIII. 

THE    REVEREND    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON    BROTPIER    FAIRWEATHER. 

For  the  last  few  months,  while  all  these  various  matters 
were  going  on  in  Rockland,  the  Reverend   Chauncy  Fair- 
weather  had  been  busy  with  the  records  of  ancient  councils 
and  the  writings  of  the  early  fathers.     The  more  he  read, 
the  more  discontented  he  became  with  the  platform  upon 
which  he  and  his  people  were  standing.     They  and  he  were,' 
clearly  in  a  minority,  and  his  deep  inward  longing  to  be  with  • 
the  majority  was  growing   to   an  engrossing  passion.     He  ; 
yearned  especially  towards  the  good  old  unquestioning,  au- 
thoritative  Mother  Church,  with  her  articles  of  faith  which 
took  away  the  necessity  of  private  judgment,  with  her  tradi 
tional  forms  and  ceremonies,  and  her  whole  apparatus  of 
stimulants  and  anodynes. 

About  this  time  he  procured  a  breviary  and  kept  it  in  his 
desk  under  the  loose  papers.  He  sent  to  a  Catholic  book 
store  and  obtained  a  small  crucifix  suspended  from  a  string 
of  beads.  He  ordered  his  new  coat  to  be  cut  very  narrow  in 
the  collar  and  to  be  made  single-breasted.  He  began  an  in 
formal  series  of  religious  conversations  with  Miss  O'Brien, 
the  young  person  of  Irish  extraction  already  referred  to  as 
Bridget,  maid  of  all  work.  These  not  proving  very  satis 
factory,  he  managed  to  fall  in  with  Father  McShane,  the 
Catholic  priest  of  the  Rockland  church.  Father  McShane 
encouraged  his  nibble  very  scientifically.  It  would  be  such  a 
fine  thing  to  bring  over  one  of  those  Protestant  heretics,  and 
a  "  liberal  "  one  too ! — not  that  there  was  any  real  difference 
between  them,  but  it  sounded  better  to  say  that  one  of  these 
rationalizing  free-and-equal  religionists  had  been  made  a 
convert  than  any  of  those  half-way  Protestants  who  were  the 
slaves  of  catechisms  instead  of  councils  and  of  commenta 
tors  instead  of  popes.  The  subtle  priest  played  his  disciple  \ 
with  his  finest  tackle.  It  was  hardly  necessary:  when  any-  \ 
thing  or  anybody  wishes  to  be  caught,  a  bare  hook  and  a 
coarse  line  are  all  that  is  needed. 


186  ELSIE    VENNER. 

If  a  man  has  a  genuine,  sincere,  hearty  wish  to  get  rid  of 

j  his  liberty,  if  he  is    really    bent    upon  becoming  a  slave, 

;  nothing  can  stop  him.     And  the  temptation  is  to  some  na- 

!  tures  a  very  great  one.     Liberty  is  often  a  heavy  burden  on 

a  man.     It  involves  that  necessity  for  perpetual  choice  which 

is  the  kind  of  labor  men  have  always  olreaded.     In  common 

life  we  shirk  it  by  forming  habits,  which  take  the  place  of 

self-determination.     In  politics  party-organization  saves  us 

the  pains  of  much  thinking  before  deciding  how  to  cast  our 

vote.      In    religious    matters    there    are    great    multitudes 

watching  us  perpetually,  each  propagandist  ready  with  his 

bundle  of  finalities,  which  having  accepted  we  may  be  at 

peace.     The  more  absolute  the  submission  demanded,  the 

stronger  the  temptation  becomes  to  those  who  have  been  long 

tossed  among  doubts  and  conflicts. 

So  it  is  that  in  all  the  quiet  bays  which  indent  the  shores 
of  the  great  ocean  of  thought,  at  every  sinking  wharf,  we  see 
moored  the  hulks  and  the  razees  of  enslaved  or  half -enslaved 
intelligences.  They  rock  peacefully  as  children  in  their 
cradles  on  the  subdued  swell  which  comes  feebly  in  over  the 
bar  at  the  harbor's  mouth,  slowly  crusting  with  barnacles, 
pulling  at  their  iron  cables  as  if  they  really  wanted  to  be 
free,  but  better  contented  to  remain  bound  as  they  are.  For 
these  no  more  the  round  unwalled  horizon  of  the  open  sea, 
the  joyous  breeze  aloft,  the  furrow,  the  foam,  the  sparkle  that 
track  the  rushing  keel!  They  have  escaped  the  dangers  of 
the  wave,  and  lie  still  henceforth,  evermore.  Happiest  of 
souls,  if  lethargy  is  bliss,  and  palsy  the  chief  beatitude ! 

America  owes  its  political  freedom  to  religious  Protestant 
ism.  But  political  freedom  is  reacting  on  religious  prescrip 
tion  with  still  mightier  force.  We  wonder,  therefore,  when 
we  find  a  soul  which  was  born  to  a  full  sense  of  individual 
liberty,  an  unchallenged  right  01  self-determination  on  every 
new  alleged  truth  offered  to  its  intelligence,  voluntarily  sur 
rendering  any  portion  of  its  liberty  to  a  spiritual  dictator 
ship  which  always  proves  to  rest,  in  the  last  analysis,  on  a 
majority  vote,  nothing  more  nor  less,  commonly  an  old  one, 
passed  in  those  barbarous  times  when  men  cursed  and  mur 
dered  each  other  for  differences  of  opinion,  and  of  course 
were  not  in  a  condition  to  settle  the  beliefs  of  a  compara 
tively  civilized  community. 

In  our  disgust,  we  are  liable  to  be  intolerant.     We  forget 


KEV.    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON    BRO.    FAIRWEATHER.     187 

that  weakness  is  not  in  itself  a  sin.  We  forget  that  even  cow-  L 
ardice  may  call  for  our  most  lenient  judgment,  if  it  spring 
from  innate  infirmity.  Who  of  us  does  not  look  with  great 
tenderness  on  the  young  chieftain  in  the  "  Fair  Maid  of 
Perth,"  when  he  confesses  his  want  of  courage?  All  of  us 
love  companionship  and  sympathy;  some  of  us  may  love 
them  too  much.  All  of  us  are  more  or  less  imaginative  in 
our  theology.  Some  of  us  may  find  the  aid  of  material  sym 
bols  a  comfort,  if  not  a  necessity.  The  boldest  thinker  may 
have  his  moments  of  languor  and  discouragement,  when  he 
feels  as  if  he  could  willingly  exchange  faiths  with  the  old 
beldame  crossing  herself  at  the  cathedral-door, — nay,  that,  if 
he  could  drop  all  coherent  thought,  and  lie  in  the  flowery 
meadow  with  the  brown-eyed  solemnly  unthinking  cattle, 
looking  up  to  the  sky,  and  all  their  simple  consciousness 
staining  itself  blue,  then  down  to  the  grass,  and  life  turning 
to  a  mere  greenness,  blended  with  confused  scents  of  herbs, 
— no  individual  mind-movement  such  as  men  are  teased 
with,  but  the  great  calm  cattle-sense  of  all  time  and  all  places 
that  know  the  milky  smell  of  herbs, — if  he  could  be  like 
these,  he  would  be  content  to  be  driven  home  by  the  cowboy 
and  share  the  grassy  banquet  of  the  king  of  ancient  Babylon. 
Let  us  be  very  generous,  then,  in  our  judgment  of  those  who 
leave  the  front  ranks  of  thought  for  the  company  of  the 
meek  non-combatants  who  follow  with  the  baggage  and  pro 
visions.  Age,  illness,  too  much  wear  and  tear,  a  half -formed 
paralysis,  may  bring  any  of  us  to  this  pass.  But  while  we 
can  think  and  maintain  the  rights  of  our  own  individuality 
against  every  human  combination,  let  us  not  forget  to  cau 
tion  all  who  are  disposed  to  waver  that  there  is  a  cowardice 
which  is  criminal,  and  a  longing  for  rest  which  it  is  base 
ness  to  indulge.  God  help  him,  over  whose  dead  soul  in  his 
living  body  must  be  uttered  the  sad  supplication,  Requiescat 
in  pace ! 

A  knock  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather's  study-door 
called  his  eyes  from  the  book  on  which  they  were  intent.  He 
looked  up,  as  if  expecting  a  welcome  guest. 

The  Reverend  Pierrepont  Honeywood,  D.  D.,  entered  the 
study  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather.  He  was  not  the 
expected  guest.  Mr.  Fairweather  slipped  the  book  he  was 
reading  into  a  half -open  drawer,  and  pushed  in  the  drawer. 


188  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

He  slid  something  which  rattled  under  a  paper  lying  on  the 
table.  He  rose  with  a  slight  change  of  color,  and  welcomed, 
a  little  awkwardly,  his  unusual  visitor. 

"  Good  evening,  Brother  Fairweather !  "  said  the  Reverend 
Doctor,  in  a  very  cordial,  good-humored  way.  "  I  hope  I  am 
not  spoiling  one  of  those  eloquent  sermons  I  never  have  a 
chance  to  hear." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  the  younger  clergyman  answered, 
in  a  languid  tone,  with  a  kind  of  habitual  half-querulous- 
ness  which  belonged  to  it, — the  vocal  expression  which  we 
meet  with  now  and  then,  and  which  says  as  plainly  as  so 
many  words  could  say  it,  "  I  am  a  suffering  individual.  I 
am  persistently  undervalued,  wronged,  and  imposed  upon  by 
mankind  and  the  powers  of  the  universe  generally.  But  I 
endure  all.  I  endure  you.  Speak.  I  listen.  It  is  a  burden 
to  me,  but  I  even  approve.  I  sacrifice  myself.  Behold  this 
movement  of  my  lips!  It  is  a  smile." 

The  Reverend  Doctor  knew  this  forlorn  way  of  Mr.  Fair- 
weather's,  and  was  not  troubled  by  it.  He  proceeded  to  re 
late  the  circumstances  of  his  visit  from  the  old  black  woman, 
and  the  fear  she  was  in  about  the  young  girl,  who  being  a 
parishioner  of  Mr.  Fairweather's,  he  had  thought  it  best  to 
come  over  and  speak  to  him  about  old  Sophy's  fears  and 
fancies. 

In  telling  the  old  woman's  story,  he  alluded  only  vaguely 
to  those  peculiar  circumstances  to  which  she  had  attributed 
so  much  importance,  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  other 
minister  must  be  familiar  with  the  whole  series  of  incidents 
she  had  related.  The  old  minister  was  mistaken,  as  we  have 
before  seen.  Mr.  Fairweather  had  been  settled  in  the  place 
only  about  ten  years,  and,  if  he  had  heard  a  strange  hint  now 
and  then  about  Elsie,  had  never  considered  it  as  anything 
more  than  idle  and  ignorant,  if  not  malicious,  village-gossip. 
All  that  he  fully  understood  was  that  this  had  been  a  per 
verse  and  unmanageable  child,  and  that  the  extraordinary 
care  which  had  been  bestowed  on  her  had  been  so  far  thrown 
away  that  she  was  a  dangerous,  self-willed  girl,  whom  all 
feared  and  almost  all  shunned,  as  if  she  carried  with  her 
some  malignant  influence. 

He  replied,  therefore,  after  hearing  the  story,  that  Elsie 
had  always  given  trouble.  There  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of 
natural  obliquity  about  her.  Perfectly  unaccountable.  A 


REV.    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON   BRO.    FAIRWEATHER.     189 

very  dark  case.     Never  amenable  to  good  influences.     Had 
sent  her  good  books  from  the  Sunday-school  library.     Re 
membered  that  she  tore  out  the  f  rontispice  of  one  of  them,  - 
and  kept  it,  and  flung  the  book  out  of  the  window.     It  was  a 
picture  of  Eve's  temptation;  and  he  recollected  her  saying 
that  Eve  was  a  good  woman, — and  she'd  have  done  just  so,  if/  £~ 
she'd  been  there.     A  very  sad  child, — very  sad;  bad  from  in 
fancy.     He  had  talked  himself  bold,  and  said  all  at  once, — 

"  Doctor,  do  you  know  I  am  almost  ready  to  accept  your 
doctrine  of  the  congenital  sinf ulness  of  human  nature  ?  I 
am  afraid  that  is  the  only  thing  which  goes  to  the  bottom  of 
the  difficulty." 

The  old  minister's  face  did  not  open  so  approvingly  as  Mr. 
Fairweather  had  expected. 

"  Why,  yes, — well, — many  find  comfort  in  it, — I  believe ; — 
there  is  much  to  be  said, — there  are  many  bad  people, — and 
bad  children, — I  can't  be  so  sure  about  bad  babies, — though 
they  cry  very  malignantly  at  times, — especially  if  they  have 
the  stomach-ache.  But  I  really  don't  know  how  to  condemn 
this  poor  Elsie;  she  may  have  impulses  that  act  in  her  like  ' 
instincts  in  the  lower  animals,  and  so  not  come  under  the 
bearing  of  our  ordinary  rules  of  judgment." 

"  But  this  depraved  tendency,  Doctor, — this  unaccountable 
perverseness.  My  dear  Sir,  I  am  afraid  your  school  is  in  the 
right  about  human  nature.  Oh,  those  words  of  the  Psalmist, 
'  shapen  in  iniquity/  and  the  rest !  What  are  we  to  do  with 
them, — we  who  teach  that  the  soul  of  a  child  is  an  unstained 
white  tablet?" 

"  King  David  was  very  subject  to  fits  of  humility,  and 
much  given  to  self-reproaches,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  rather 
dry  way.  "  We  owe  you  and  your  friends  a  good  deal  for 
calling  attention  to  the  natural  graces,  which,  after  all,  may, 
perhaps,  be  considered  as  another  form  of  manifestation  of 
the  divine  influence.  Some  of  our  writers  have  pressed 
rather  too  hard  on  the  tendencies  of  the  human  soul  toward 
evil  as  such.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  these  views  have 
not  interfered  with  the  sound  training  of  certain  young  per 
sons,  sons  of  clergymen  and  others.  I  am  nearer  of  your  mind 
about  the  possibility  of  educating  children  so  that  they  shall 
become  good  Christians  without  any  violent  transition. 
That  is  what  I  should  hope  for  from  bringing  them  up  '  in 
the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.' " 


190  ELSIE    VENNER. 

The  younger  minister  looked  puzzled,  but  presently  an 
swered, — • 

"  Possibly  we  may  have  called  attention  to  some  neglected 
truths;  but,  after  all,  I  fear  we  must  go  to  the  old  school,  if 
we  want  to  get  at  the  root  of  the  matter.  I  know  there  is  an 
outward  amiability  about  many  young  persons,  some  young 
girls  especially,  that  seems  like  genuine  goodness ;  but  I  have 
been  disposed  of  late  to  lean  toward  your  view,  that  these 
human  affections,  as  we  see  them  in  our  children, — ours,  I 
say,  though  I  have  not  the  fearful  responsibility  of  training 
any  of  my  own, — are  only  a  kind  of  disguised  and  sinful 
selfishness." 

The  old  minister  groaned  in  spirit.  His  heart  had  been 
softened  by  the  sweet  influences  of  children  and  grand 
children.  He  thought  of  a  half-sized  grave  in  the  burial- 
ground,  and  the  fine,  brave,  noble-hearted  boy  he  laid  in 
it  thirty  years  before, — the  sweet,  cheerful  child  who  had 
made  his  home  all  sunshine  until  the  day  when  he  was 
bought  into  it,  his  long  curls  dripping,  his  fresh  lips  purple 
in  death, — foolish  dear  little  blessed  creature  to  throw  him 
self  into  the  deep  water  to  save  the  drowning  boy,  who  clung 
about  him  and  carried  him  under !  Disguised  selfishness ! 
And  his  granddaughter  too,  whose  disguised  selfishness  was 
the  light  of  his  household ! 

"  Don't  call  it  my  view !  "  he  said.  "  Abstractly,  perhaps, 
all  natures  may  be  considered  vitiated;  but  practically,  as  I 
see  it  in  life,  the  divine  grace  keeps  pace  with  the  perverted 
instincts  from  infancy  in  many  natures.  Besides,  this  per 
version  itself  may  often  be  disease,  bad  habits  transmitted, 
like  drunkenness,  or  some  hereditary  misfortune,  as  with  this 
Elsie  we  were  talking  about." 

The  younger  minister  was  completely  mystified.  At  every 
step  he  made  towards  the  Doctor's  recognized  theological 
position,  the  Doctor  took  just  one  step  towards  his.  They 
would  cross  each  other  soon  at  this  rate,  and  might 
as  well  exchange  pulpits, — as  Colonel  Sprowle  once  wished 
they  would,  it  may  be  remembered. 

The  Doctor,  though  a  much  clearer-headed  man,  was  al 
most  equally  puzzled.  He  turned  the  conversation  again 
upon  Elsie,  and  endeavored  to  make  her  minister  feel  the  im 
portance  of  bringing  every  friendly  influence  to  bear  upon 
her  at  this  critical  period  of  her  life.  His  sympathies  did 


REV.    DOCTOR    CALLS    ON    BKO.    jb'AiR WEATHER.     191 

not  seem  so  lively  as  the  Doctor  could  have  wished.  Perhaps 
he  had  vastly  more  important  objects  of  solicitude  in  his 
own  spiritual  interests. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  them.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  rose  and  went  towards  it.  As  he  passed  the 
table,  his  coat  caught  something,  which  came  rattling  to  the 
floor.  It  was  a  crucifix  with  a  string  of  beads  attached. 
As  he  opened  the  door  the  Milesian  features  of  Father  Mc- 
Shane  presented  themselves,  and  from  their  center  proceeded 
the  clerical  benediction  in  Irish-sounding  Latin,  Pax 
vobiscum ! 

The  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood  rose  and  left  the  priest 
and  his  disciple  together. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    SPIDER    ON    HIS    THREAD. 

There  was  nobody,  then,  to  counsel  poor  Elsie,  except  her 
father,  who  had  learned  to  let  her  have  her  own  way  so  as  not 
to  disturb  such  relations  as  they  had  together,  and  the  old 
black  woman,  who  had  a  real,  though  limited  influence  over 
the  girl.  Perhaps  she  did  not  need  counsel.  To  look  upon 
her,  one  might  well  suppose  that  sl^a  was  competent  to  defend 
herself  against  any  enemy  she  was  like  to  have.  That  glit 
tering,  piercing  eye  was  not  to  be  softened  by  a  few  smooth 
words  spoken  in  low  tones,  charged  with  the  common  senti 
ments  which  win  their  way  to  maiden's  hearts.  That  round, 
lithe,  sinuous  figure  was  as  full  of  dangerous  life  as  ever  lay 
under  the  slender  flanks  and  clean-shaped  limbs  of  a  panther. 

There  were  particular  times  when  Elsie  was  in  such  a  mood 
that  it  must  have  been  a  bold  person  who  would  have  in 
truded  upon  her  with  reproof  or  counsel.  "  This  is  one  of  her 
days,"  old  Sophy  would  say  quietly  to  her  father,  and  he 
would,  as  far  as  possible,  leave  her  to  herself.  These  days 
were  more  frequent,  as  old  Sophy's  keen,  concentrated  watch 
fulness  had  taught  her,  at  certain  periods  of  the  year.  It 
was  in  the  heats  of  summer  that  they  were  most  common  and 
most  strongly  characterized.  In  winter,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  was  less  excitable,  and  even  at  times  heavy  and  as  if 
chilled  and  dulled  in  her  sensibilities.  It  was  a  strange, 
paroxysmal  kind  of  life  that  belonged  to  her.  It  seemed  to 
come  and  go  with  the  sunlight.  All  winter  long  she  would 
be  comparatively  quiet,  easy  to  manage,  listless,  slow  in  her 
motions;  her  eye  would  lose  something  of  its  strange  luster; 
and  the  old  nurse  would  feel  so  little  anxiety,  that  her  whole 
expression  and  aspect  would  show  the  change,  and  people 
who  would  say  to  her,  "Why,  Sophy,  how  young  you're 
looking!" 

As  the  spring  came  on,  Elsie  would  leave  the  fireside,  have 
her  tiger-skin  spread  in  the  empty  southern  chamber  next 


THE    SPIDEB    ON   HIS    THREAD.  193 

the  wall,  and  lie  there  basking  for  whole  hours  in  the  sun 
shine.  As  the  season  warmed,  the  light  would  kindle  afresh 
in  her  eyes,  and  the  old  woman's  sleep  would  grow  restless 
again, — for  she  knew,  that,  so  long  as  the  glitter  was  fierce 
in  the  girl's  eyes,  there  was  no  trusting  her  impulses  or 
movements. 

At   last,   when   the   veins   of   the   summer   were   hot   and  '; 
swollen,  and  the  juices  of  all  the  poison-plants  and  the  blood 
of  all  the  creatures  that  feed  upon  them  had  grown  thick   • 
and  strong, — about  the  time  when  the  second  mowing  was  : 
in  hand,  and  the  brown,  wet-faced  men  were  following  up  the 
scythes  as  they  chased  the  falling  waves  of  grass,  (falling  as 
the  waves  fall  on  sickle-curved  beaches;   the  foam-flowers 
dropping  as  the  grass-flowers  drop, — with  sharp  semivowel 
consonantal  sounds — frsli, — for  that  is  the  way  the  sea  talks, 
and  leaves  all  pure  vowel-sounds  for  the  winds  to  breathe  over 
it,  and  all  mutes  to  the  unyielding  earth,) — about  this  time 
of  over-ripe  midsummer,  the  life  of  Elsie  seemed  fullest  of  \ 
its  malign  and  restless  instincts.     This  was  the  period  of  the  . 
year  when  the  Rockland  people  were  most  cautious  of  wander 
ing  in  the  leafier  coverts  which  skirted  the  base  of   The 
Mountain,  and  the  farmers  liked  to  wear  thick,  long  boots, 
whenever  they  went  into  the  bushes.     But  Elsie  was  never  so 
much  given  to  roaming  over  The  Mountain  as  at  this  season ; 
and  as  she  had  grown  more  absolute  and  uncontrollable,  she 
was  as  like  to  take  the  night  as  the  day  for  her  rambles. 

At  this  season,  too,  all  her  peculiar  tastes  in  dress  and 
ornament  came  out  in  a  more  striking  way  than  at  other 
times.  She  was  never  so  superb  as  then,  and  never  so 
threatening  in  her  scowling  beauty.  The  barred  skirts  she 
always  fancied  showed  sharply  beneath  her  diaphanous  mus 
lins  ;  the  diamonds  often  glittered  on  her  breast  as  if  for  her 
own  pleasure  rather  than  to  dazzle  others ;  the  asp-like  bracelet 
hardly  left  her  arm.  She  was  never  seen  without  some  neck 
lace, — either  the  golden  cord  she  wore  at  the  great  party,  or  a 
chain  of  mosaics,  or  simply  a  ring  of  golden  scales.  Some 
said  that  Elsie  always  slept  in  "a  necklace,  and  that  when  she 
died  she  was  to  be  buried  in  one.  It  was  a  fancy  of  hers, — 
but  many  thought  there  was  a  reason  for  it. 

Nobody  watched  Elsie  with  a  more  searching  eye  than  her 
cousin,  Dick  Venner.  He  had  kept  more  out  of  her  way  of 
late,  it  is  true^  but  there  was  not  a  movement  she  made  which. 


194  ELSIE   VENNER. 

he  did  not  carefully  observe  just  so  far  as  he  could  without 
exciting  her  suspicion.  It  was  plain  enough  to  him  that  the 
road  to  fortune  was  before  him,  and  that  the  first  thing  was 
to  marry  Elsie.  What  course  he  should  take  with  her,  or 
with  others  interested,  after  marrying  her,  need  not  be 
decided  in  a  hurry. 

He  had  now  done  all  he  could  expect  to  do  at  present  in  the 
way  of  conciliating  the  other  members  of  the  household.  The 
girl's  father  tolerated  him,  if  he  did  not  even  like  him. 
Whether  he  suspected  his  project  or  not  Dick  did  not  feel 
sure;  but  it  was  something  to  have  got  a  foot-hold  in  the 
house,  and  to  have  overcome  any  prepossession  against  him 
which  his  uncle  might  have  entertained.  To  be  a  good 
listener  and  a  bad  billiard-player  was  not  a  very  great  sacri 
fice  to  effect  this  object.  Then  old  Sophy  could  hardly  help 
feeling  well-disposed  towards  him,  after  the  gifts  he  had 
bestowed  on  her  and  the  court  he  had  payed  her.  These 
were  the  only  persons  on  the  place  of  much  importance  to 
gain  over.  The  people  employed  about  the  house  and  farm 
lands  had  little  to  do  with  Elsie,  except  to  obey  her  without 
questioning  her  commands. 

Mr.  Richard  began  to  think  of  reopening  his  second 
parallel.  But  he  had  lost  something  of  the  coolness  with 
which  he  had  begun  his  system  of  operations.  The  more  he 
had  reflected  upon  the  matter,  the  more  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  this  was  his  one  great  chance  in  life.  If  he 
suffered  this  girl  to  escape  him,  such  an  opportunity  could 
hardly,  in  the  nature  of  things,  present  itself  a  second  time. 
Only  one  life  between  Elsie  and  her  fortune, — and  lives  are 
so  uncertain!  The  girl  might  not  suit  him  as  a  wife. 
Possibly.  Time  enough  to  find  out  after  he  had  got  her. 
In  short,  he  must  have  the  property,  and  Elsie  Venner,  as 
/she  was  to  go  with  it, — and  then,  if  he  found  it  convenient 
and  agreeable  to  lead  a  virtuous  life,  he  would  settle  down 
and  raise  children  and  vegetables;  but  if  he  found  it  incon 
venient  and  disagreeable,  so  much  the  worse  for  those  who 
/made  it  so.  Like  many  other  persons,  he  was  not  principled 
against  virtue,  provided  virtue  were  a  better  investment  than 
its  opposite;  but  he  knew  that  there  might  be  contingencies 
in  which  the  property  would  be  better  without  its  incum- 
brances,  and  he  contemplated  this  conceivable  problem  in  the 
light  of  all  its  possible  solutions. 


THE    SPIDER    <m    HIS    THREAD.  195 

One  thing  Mr.  Richard  could  not  conceal  from  himself: 
Elsie  had  some  new  cause  of  indifference,  at  least,  if  not  of 
aversion  to  him.  With  the  acuteness  which  persons  who 
make  a  sole  business  of  their  own  interest  gain  by  practice, 
so  that  fortune-hunters  are  often  shrewd  where  real  lovers 
are  terribly  simple,  he  fixed  at  once  on  the  young  man  up  at 
the  school  where  the  girl  had  been  going  of  late,  as  probably 
at  the  bottom  of  it. 

"  Cousin  Elsie  in  love ! "  so  he  communed  with  himself 
upon  his  lonely  pillow.  "In  love  with  a  Yankee  school 
master  !  What  else  can  it  be  ?  Let  him  look  out  for  himself ! 
He'll  stand  but  a  bad  chance  between  us.  What  makes  you 
think  she's  in  love  with  him?  Met  her  walking  with  him. 
Don't  like  her  looks  and  ways; — she's  thinking  about  some 
thing,  anyhow.  Where  does  she  get  those  books  she  is  read 
ing  so  often?  Not  out  of  our  library,  that's  certain.  If  I 
could  have  ten  minutes'  peep  into  her  chamber  now  I  would 
find  out  where  she  got  them,  and  what  mischief  she  was  up 
to." 

At  that  instant,  as  if  some  tributary  demon  had  heard  his 
wish,  a  shape  which  could  be  none  but  Elsie's  flitted  through 
a  gleam  of  moonlight  into  the  shadow  of  the  tree.  She  was 
setting  out  on  one  of  her  midnight  rambles. 

Dick  felt  his  heart  stir  in  its  place,  and  presently  his 
cheeks  flushed  with  the  old  longing  for  an  adventure.  It 
was  not  much  to  invade  a  young  girl's  deserted  chamber,  but 
it  would  amuse  a  wakeful  hour,  and  tell  him  some  little 
matters  he  wanted  to  know.  The  chamber  he  slept  in  was 
over  the  room  which  Elsie  chiefly  occupied  at  this  season. 
There  was  no  great  risk  of  his  being  seen  or  heard,  if  he 
ventured  downstairs  to  her  apartment. 

Mr.  Richard  Venner,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  interesting  proj 
ect,  arose  and  lighted  a  lamp.  He  wrapped  himself  in  a 
dressing-gown  and  thrust  his  feet  into  a  pair  of  cloth  slippers. 
He  stole  carefully  down  the  stair,  and  arrived  safely  at  the 
door  of  Elsie's  room.  The  young  lady  had  taken  the  natural 
precaution  to  leave  it  fastened,  carrying  the  key  with  her,  no 
doubt, — unless,  indeed,  she  had  got  out  by  the  window,  which 
was  not  far  from  the  ground.  Dick  could  get  in  at  this 
window  easily  enough,  but  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  leaving 
his  footprints  in  the  flower-bed  just  under  it.  He  returned 
to  his  own  chamber,  and  held  a  council  of  war  with  himself. 


196  ELSIE   VENDER. 

He  put  his  head  out  of  his  own  window  and  looked  at  that 
beneath.  It  was  open.  He  then  went  to  one  of  his  trunks, 
which  he  unlocked,  and  began  carefully  removing  its  con 
tents.  What  these  were  we  need  not  stop  to  mention, — only 
remarking  that  there  were  dresses  of  various  patterns,  which 
might  afford  an  agreeable  series  of  changes,  and  in  certain 
contingencies  prove  eminently  useful.  After  removing  a  few 
of  these,  he  thrust  his  hand  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  remain 
ing  pile  and  drew  out  a  coiled  strip  of  leather  many  yards  in 
length,  ending  in  a  noose, — a  tough,  well-seasoned  lasso,  look 
ing  as  if  it  had  seen  service  and  was  none  the  worse  for  it. 
He  uncoiled  a  few  yards  of  this  and  fastened  it  to  the  knob 
of  a  door.  Then  he  threw  the  loose  end  out  of  the  window 
so  that  it  should  hang  by  the  open  casement  of  Elsie's  room. 
By  this  he  let  himself  down  oppositelier  window,  and  with  a 
slight  effort  swung  himself  inside  the  room.  He  lighted  a 
match,  found  a  candle,  and,  having  lighted  that,  looked 
curiously  about  him,  as  Clodius  might  have  done  when  he 
smuggled  himself  in  among  the  Vestals. 

Elsie's  room  was  almost  as  peculiar  as  her  dress  and  orna 
ments.  It  was  a  kind  of  museum  of  objects,  such  as  the 
woods  are  full  of  to  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  them,  but 
many  of  them  such  as  only  few  could  hope  to  reach,  even  if 
they  knew  where  to  look  for  them.  Crows'  nests  which  are 
never  found  but  in  the  tall  trees,  commonly  enough  in  the 
forks  of  ancient  hemlocks,  eggs  of  rare  birds,  which  must 
have  taken  a  quick  eye  and  a  hard  climb  to  find  and  get  hold 
of,  mosses  and  ferns  of  unusual  aspect,  and  quaint  mon 
strosities  of  vegetable  growth,  such  as  Nature  delights  in, 
showed  that  Elsie  had  her  tastes  and  fancies  like  any  natural 
ist  or  poet. 

Nature,  when  left  to  her  own  freaks  in  the  forest,  is 
grotesque  and  fanciful  to  the  verge  of  license,  and  beyond  it. 
The  foliage  of  trees  does  not  always  require  clipping  to  make 
it  look  like  an  image  of  life.  From  those  windows  at  Canoe 
Meadow,  among  the  mountains,  we  could  see  all  summer  long 
a  lion  rampant,  a  Shanghai  chicken,  and  General  Jackson  on 
horseback,  done  by  Nature  in  green  leaves,  each  with  a  single 
tree.  But  to  Nature's  tricks  with  boughs  and  roots  and 
smaller  vegetable  growths  there  is  no  end.  Her  fancy  is 
infinite,  and  her  humor  not  always  refined.  There  is  a  per- 
reminisppnofi  of  animal  life  in  her  rude  caricatures. 


THE   SPIDER    ON    HIS    THREAD.  197 

which  sometimes  actually  reach  the  point  of  imitating  the 
complete  human  figure,  as  in  that  extraordinary  specimen 
which  nobody  will  believe  to  be  genuine,  except  the  men  of 
science,  and  of  which  the  discreet  reader  may  have  a  glimpse 
by  application  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Elsie  had  gathered  so  many  of  these  sculpture-like  mon 
strosities,  that  one  might  have  thought  she  had  robbed  old 
Sophy's  grandfather  of  his  fetiches.  They  helped  to  give 
her  room  a  kind  of  enchanted  look,  as  if  a  witch  had  her  home 
in  it.  Over  the  fireplace  was  a  long,  staff-like  branch, 
strangled,  in  the  spiral  coils  of  one  of  those  vines  which  strain 
the  smaller  trees  in  their  clinging  embraces,  sinking  into  the 
bark  until  the  parasite  becomes  almost  identified  with  its 
support.  With  these  sylvan  curiosities  were  blended  objects 
of  art,  some  of  them  not  less  singular,  but  others  showing  a 
love  for  the  beautiful  in  form  and  color  such  as  a  girl  of  fine 
organization  and  nice  culture  might  naturally  be  expected  to 
feel  and  to  indulge,  in  adorning  her  apartment. 

All  these  objects,  pictures,  bronzes,  vases,  and  the  rest,  did 
not  detain  Mr.  Richard  Venner  very  long,  whatever  may 
have  been  his  sensibilities  to  art.  He  was  more  curious  about 
books  and  papers.  A  copy  of  Keats  lay  on  the  table.  He 
opened  it  and  read  the  name  of  Bernard  C.  Langdon  on  the 
blank  leaf.  An  envelope  was  on  the  table  with  Elsie's  name 
written  in  a  similar  hand ;  but  the  envelope  was  empty,  and  he 
could  not  find  the  note  it  contained.  Her  desk  was  locked, 
and  it  would  not  be  safe  to  tamper  with  it.  He  had  seen 
enough;  the  girl  received  books  and  notes  from  this  fellow 
up  at  the  school, — this  usher,  this  Yankee  quill-driver; — he 
was  aspiring  to  become  the  lord  of  the  Dudley  domain,  then, 
was  he? 

Elsie  had  been  reasonably  careful.  She  had  locked  up  her 
papers,  whatever  they  might  be.  There  was  little  else  that 
promised  to  reward  his  curiosity,  but  he  cast  his  eye  on 
everything.  There  was  a  clasp-Bible  among  her  books. 
Dick  wondered  if  she  ever  unclasped  it.  There  was  a  book  of 
hymns ;  it  had  her  name  in  it,  and  looked  as  if  it  might  have 
been  often  read; — what  the  diablo  had  Elsie  to  do  with 
hymns  ? 

Mr.  Richard  Venner  was  in  an  observing  and  analytical 
state  of  mind,  it  will  be  noticed,  or  he  might  perhaps  have 
been  touched  with  the  innocent  betrayals  of  the  poor  girl's 


198  ELSIE    VENNER. 

chamber.  Had  she,  after  all,  some  human  tenderness  in  her 
heart?  That  was  not  the  way  he  put  the  question, — but 
whether  she  would  take  seriously  to  this  schoolmaster,  and 
if  she  did,  what  would  be  the  neatest  and  surest  and  quickest 
way  of  putting  a  stop  to  all  that  nonsense.  All  this,  however, 
he  could  think  over  more  safely  in  his  own  quarters.  So  he 
stole  softly  to  the  window,  and,  catching  the  end  of  the 
leathern  thong,  regained  his  own  chamber  and  drew  in  the 
lasso. 

It  needs  only  a  little  jealousy  to  set  a  man  on  who  is 
doubtful  in  love  or  wooing,  or  to  make  him  take  hold  of  his 
courting  in  earnest.  As  soon  as  Dick  had  satisfied  himself 
that  the  young  schoolmaster  was  his  rival  in  Elsie's  good 
graces,  his  whole  thoughts  concentrated  themselves  more  than 
ever  on  accomplishing  his  great  design  of  securing  her  for 
himself.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  He  must  come  into 
closer  relations  with  her,  so  as  to  withdraw  her  thoughts  from 
this  fellow,  and  to  find  out  more  exactly  what  was  the  state 
of  her  affections,  if  she  had  any.  So  he  began  to  court  her 
company  again,  to  propose  riding  with  her,  to  sing  to  her,  to 
join  her  whenever  she  was  strolling  about  the  grounds,  to 
make  himself  agreeable,  according  to  the  ordinary  under 
standing  of  that  phrase,  in  every  way  which  seemed  to 
promise  a  chance  for  succeeding  in  that  amiable  effort. 

The  girl  treated  him  more  capriciously  than  ever.  She 
would  be  sullen  and  silent,  or  she  would  draw  back  fiercely 
at  some  harmless  word  or  gesture,  or  she  would  look  at  him 
with  her  eyes  narrowed  in  such  a  strange  way  and  with  such 
a  wicked  light  in  them  that  Dick  swore  to  himself  they  were 
too  much  for  him,  and  would  leave  her  for  the  moment.  Yet 
she  tolerated  him,  almost  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  and  some 
times  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  trying  her  power 
upon  him.  This  he  soon  found  out,  and  humored  her  in  the 
fancy  that  she  could  exercise  a  kind  of  fascination  over  him, 
— though  there  were  times  in  which  he  actually  felt  an  in 
fluence  he  could  not  understand,  an  effect  of  some  peculiar 
expression  about  her,  perhaps,  but  still  centering  in  those 
diamond  eyes  of  hers  which  it  made  one  feel  so  curiously  to 
look  into. 

Whether  Elsie  saw  into  his  object  or  not  was  more  than  he 
could  tell.  His  idea  was,  after  having  conciliated  the  good 
will  of  all  about  her  as  far  as  possible,  to  make  himself  first 


THE    SPIDER    ON    HIS    THREAD.  199 

a  habit  and  then  a  necessity  with  the  girl, — not  to  spring  any 
trap  of  a  declaration  upon  her  until  tolerance  had  grown 
into  such  a  degree  of  inclination  as  her  nature  was  like  to 
admit.  He  had  succeeded  in  the  first  part  of  his  plan.  He 
was  at  liberty  to  prolong  his  visit  at  his  own  pleasure.  This 
was  not  strange;  these  three  persons,  Dudley  Venner,  his 
daughter,  and  his  nephew,  represented  all  that  remained  of  an 
old  and  honorable  family.  Had  Elsie  been  like  other  girls, 
her  father  might  have  been  less  willing  to  entertain  a  young 
fellow  like  Dick  as  an  inmate;  but  he  had  long  outgrown  all 
the  slighter  apprehensions  which  he  might  have  had  in  com 
mon  with  all  parents,  and  followed  rather  than  led  the  im 
perious  instincts  of  his  daughter.  It  was  not  a  question  of 
sentiment,  but  of  life  and  death,  or  more  than  that, — some 
dark  ending,  perhaps,  which  would  close  the  history  of  his 
race  with  disaster  and  evil  report  upon  the  lips  of  all  coming 
generations. 

As  to  the  thought  of  his  nephew's  making  love  to  his 
daughter,  it  had  almost  passed  from  his  mind.  He  had  been 
so  long  in  the  habit  of  looking  at  Elsie  as  outside  of  all 
common  influences  and  exceptional  in  the  law  of  her  nature, 
that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  think  of  her  as  a  girl  to  be 
fallen  in  love  with.  Many  persons  are  surprised,  when  others 
court  their  female  relatives;  they  know  them  as  good  young 
or  old  women  enough, — aunts,  sisters,  nieces,  daughters,  what 
ever  they  may  be, — but  never  think  of  anybody's  falling  in 
love  with  them,  any  more  than  of  their  being  struck  by  light 
ning.  But  in  this  case  there  were  special  reasons,  in  addi 
tion  to  the  common  family  delusion, — reasons  which  seemed 
to  make  it  impossible  that  she  should  attract  a  suitor.  Who 
would  dare  to  marry  Elsie?  No,  let  her  have  the  pleasure, 
if  it  was  one,  at  any  rate  the  wholesome  excitement,  of  com 
panionship  ;  it  might  save  her  from  lapsing  into  melancholy 
or  a  worse  form  of  madness.  Dudley  Venner  had  a  kind  of 
superstition,  too,  that,  if  Elsie  could  only  outlive  three 
septenaries,  twenty-one  years,  so  that,  according  to  the  prev 
alent  idea,  her  whole  frame  would  have  been  thrice  made 
over,  counting  from  her  birth,  she  would  revert  to  the  natural  , 
standard  of  health  of  mind  and  feelings  from  which  she  had 
been  so  long  perverted.  The  thought  of  any  other  motive 
than  love  being  sufficient  to  induce  Richard  to  become  her 
suitor  had  not  occurred  to  him.  He  had  married  early,  at 


200  ELSIE   VENNER. 

that  happy  period  when  interested  motives  are  least  apt  to 
influence  the  choice;  and  his  single  idea  of  marriage  was, 
that  it  was  the  union  of  persons  naturally  drawn  towards 
each  other  by  some  mutual  attraction.  Very  simple,  per 
haps;  but  he  had  lived  lonely  for  many  years  since  his  wife's 
death,  and  judged  the  hearts  of  others,  most  of  all  of  his 
brother's  son,  by  his  own.  He  had  often  thought  whether, 
in  case  of  Elsie's  dying  or  being  necessarily  doomed  to  seclu 
sion,  he  might  not  adopt  this  nephew  and  make  him  his  heir ; 
but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Richard  might  wish  to 
become  his  son-in-law  for  the  sake  of  his  property. 

It  is  very  easy  to  criticise  other  people's  modes  of  dealing 
with  their  children.  Outside  observers  see  results;  parents 
see  processes.  They  notice  the  trivial  movements  and  ac 
cents  which  betray  the  blood  of  this  or  that  ancestor;  they 
can  detect  the  irrepressible  movement  of  hereditary  impulse 
in  looks  and  acts  which  mean  nothing  to  the  common  ob 
server.  To  be  a  parent  is  almost  to  be  a  fatalist.  This  boy 
sits  with  legs  crossed,  just  as  his  uncle  used  to  whom  he  never 
saw;  his  grandfathers  both  died  before  he  was  born,  but  he 
has  the  movement  of  the  eyebrows  which  we  remember  in  one 
of  them,  and  the  gusty  temper  of  the  other. 

These  are  things  parents  can  see,  and  which  they  must  take 
account  of  in  education,  but  which  few  except  parents  can  be 
expected  to  really  understand.  Here  and  there  a  sagacious 
person,  old,  or  of  middle  age,  who  has  triangulated  a  race, 
that  is,  taken  three  or  more  observations  from  the  several 
standing-places  of  three  different  generations,  can  tell  pretty 
nearly  the  range  of  possibilities  and  the  limitations  of  a 
child,  actual  or  potential,  of  a  given  stock, — errors  excepted 
always,  because  children  of  the  same  stock  are  not  bred  just 
alike,  because  the  traits  of  some  less  known  ancestor  are 
liable  to  break  out  at  any  time,  and  because  each  human 
being  has,  after  all,  a  small  fraction  of  individuality  about 
him  which  gives  him  a  flavor,  so  that  he  is  distinguishable 
from  others  by  his  friends  or  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  which 
occasionally  makes  a  genius  or  a  saint  or  a  criminal  of  him. 
It  is  well  that  young  persons  cannot  read  these  fatal  oracles 
of  Nature.  Blind  impulse  is  her  highest  wisdom,  after  all. 
We  make  our  great  jump,  and  then  she  takes  the  bandage  off 
our  eyes.  That  is  the  way  the  broad  sea-level  of  average  is 
maintained,  and  the  physiological  democracy  is  enabled  to 


THE    SPIDER    ON    HIS   THREAD.  201 

fight  against  the  principle  of  selection  which  would  disin 
herit  all  the  weaker  children.  The  magnificent  constituency 
of  mediocrities  of  which  the  world  is  made  up, — the  people 
without  biographies,  whose  lives  have  made  a  clear  solution 
in  the  fluid  menstruum  of  time,  instead  of  being  precipitated 

in  the  opaque  sediment  of  history 

But  this  is  a  narrative,  and  not  a  disquisition. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FROM    WITHOUT    AND    FROM     WITHIN. 

There  were  not  wanting  people  who  accused  Dudley  Ven- 
ner  of  weakness  and  bad  judgment  in  his  treatment  of  his 
daughter.  Some  were  of  opinion  that  the  great  mis 
take  was  in  not  "  breaking  her  will "  when  she  was  a  little 
child.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  they  said,  but 
that  she  had  been  spoiled  by  indulgence.  If  they  had  had 
the  charge  of  her,  they'd  have  brought  her  down.  She'd 
got  the  upper  hand  of  her  father  now;  but  if  he'd  only 
taken  hold  of  her  in  season!  There  are  people  who  think 
that  everything  may  be  done,  if  the  doer,  be  he  educator  or 
physician,  be  only  called  "  in  season."  No  doubt, — but  in 
season  would  often  be  a  hundred  or  two  years  before  the 
child  was  born ;  and  people  never  send  so  early  as  that. 

The  father  of  Elsie  Venner  knew  his  duties  and  his  diffi 
culties  too  well  to  trouble  himself  about  anything  others 
might  think  or  say.  So  soon  as  he  found  that  he  could  not 
govern  his  child,  he  gave  his  life  up  to  following  her  and 
protecting  her  as  far  as  he  could.  It  was  a  stern  and  ter 
rible  trial  for  a  man  of  acute  sensibility,  and  not  without 
force  of  intellect  and  will,  and  the  manly  ambition  for  him 
self  and  his  family-name  which  belonged  to  his  endowments 
and  his  position.  Passive  endurance  is  the  hardest  trial  to 
persons  of  such  a  nature. 

What  made  it  still  more  a  long  martyrdom  was  the  neces 
sity  for  bearing  his  cross  in  utter  loneliness.  He  could  not 
tell  his  griefs.  He  could  not  talk  of  them  even  with  those 
who  knew  their  secret  spring.  His  minister  had  the  un 
sympathetic  nature  which  is  common  in  the  meaner  sort  of 
devotees, — persons  who  mistake  spiritual  selfishness  for 
sanctity,  and  grab  at  the  infinite  prize  of  the  great  Future 
and  Elsewhere  with  the  egotism  they  excommunicate  in  its 
hardly  more  odious  forms  of  avarice  and  self-indulgence. 
How  could  he  speak  with  the  old  physician  and  the  old  black 


FROM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN.     203 

woman  about  a  sorrow  and  a  terror  which  but  to  name  was  tc 
strike  dumb  the  lips  of  Consolation  ? 

In  the  dawn  of  his  manhood  he  had  found  that  second 
consciousness  for  which  young  men  and  young  women  go 
about  looking  into  each  other's  faces,  with  their  sweet,  artless 
aim  playing  in  every  feature,  and  making  them  beauti 
ful  to  each  other,  as  to  all  of  us.  He  had  found  his  other 
self  early,  before  he  had  grown  weary  in  the  search  and 
wasted  his  freshness  in  vain  longings :  the  lot  of  many,  per 
haps  we  may  say  of  most,  who  infringe  the  patent  of  our 
social  order  by  intruding  themselves  into  a  life  already  upon 
half-allowance  of  the  necessary  luxuries  of  existence.  The 
life  he  had  led  for  a  brief  space  was  not  only  beautiful  in 
outward  circumstances,  as  old  Sophy  had  described  it  to  the 
Reverend  Doctor.  It  was  that  delicious  process  of  the  tun 
ing  of  two  souls  to  each  other,  string  by  string,  not  without 
little  half-pleasing  discords  now  and  then,  when  some  chord 
in  one  or  the  other  proves  to  be  over-strained  or  over-lax, 
but  always  approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  harmony,  until 
they  become  at  last  as  two  instruments  with  a  single  voice. 
Something  more  than  a  year  of  this  blissful  doubled  con 
sciousness  had  passed  over  him  when  he  found  himself 
once  more  alone, — alone,  save  for  the  little  diamond-eyed 
child  lying  in  the  old  black  woman's  arms,  with  the  coral 
necklace  round  her  throat  and  the  rattle  in  her  hand. 

He  would  not  die  by  his  own  act.  It  was  not  the  way  in 
his  family.  There  may  have  been  other,  perhaps  better  rea 
sons,  but  this  was  enough;  he  did  not  come  of  suicidal 
stock.  He  must  live  for  this  child's  sake,  at  any  rate;  and 
yet, — oh.  yet,  who  could  tell  with  what  thoughts  he  looked 
upon  her?  Sometimes  her  little  features  would  look  placid, 
and  something  like  a  smile  would  steal  over  them;  then  all 
his  tender  feelings  would  rush  up  into  his  eyes,  and  he  would 
put  his  arms  out  to  take  her  from  the  old  woman, — but  all 
at  once  her  eyes  would  narrow  and  she  would  throw  her  head 
back,  and  a  shudder  would  seize  him  as  he  stooped  over  his 
child, — he  could  not  look  upon  her, — he  could  not  touch  his 
lips  to  her  cheek;  nay,  there  would  sometimes  come  into  his 
soul  such  frightful  suggestions  that  he  would  hurry  from  the 
room  lest  the  hinted  thought  should  become  a  momentary 
madness  and  he  should  lift  his  hand  against  the  hapless 
infant  which  owed  him  life. 


204  ELSIE   VENNER. 

In  those  miserable  days  he  used  to  wander  all  over  The 
Mountain  in  his  restless  endeavor  to  seek  some  relief  for  in 
ward  suffering  in  outward  action.  He  had  no  thought  of 
throwing  himself  from  the  summit  of  any  of  the  broken  cliffs, 
but  he  clambered  over  them  recklessly,  as  having  no  particu 
lar  care  for  his  life.  Sometimes  he  would  go  into  the  ac- 
cursed  district  where  the  venomous  reptiles  were  always  to 
be  dreaded,  and  court  their  worst  haunts,  and  kill  all  he 
could  come  near  with  a  kind  of  blind  fury  which  was  strange 
in  a  person  of  his  gentle  nature. 

One  overhanging  cliff  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  his.  It 
frowned  upon  his  home  beneath  in  a  very  menacing  way ;  he 
noticed  slight  seams  and  fissures  that  looked  ominous ; — what 
would  happen  if  it  broke  off  some  time  or  other  and  come 
crashing  down  on  the  fields  and  roofs  below?  He  thought 
of  such  a  possible  catastrophe  with  a  singular  indifference,  in 
fact  with  a  feeling  almost  like  pleasure.  It  would  be  such  a 
swift  and  thorough  solution  of  this  great  problem  of  life  he 
was  working  out  in  ever- recurring  daily  anguish!  The  re 
mote  possibility  of  such  a  catastrophe  had  frightened  some 
timid  dwellers  beneath  The  Mountain  to  other  places  of  resi 
dence  ;  here  the  danger  was  most  imminent,  and  yet  he  loved 
to  dwell  upon  the  chances  of  its  occurrence.  Danger  is  often 
the  best  counter-irritant  in  cases  of  mental  suffering;  he 
found  a  solace  in  careless  exposure  of  his  life,  and  learned 
to  endure  the  trials  of  each  day  better  by  dwelling  in  imagi 
nation  on  the  possibility  that  it  might  be  the  last  for  him 
and  the  home  that  was  his. 

Time,  the  great  consoler,  helped  these  influences,  and  he 
gradually  fell  into  more  easy  and  less  dangerous  habits  of 
life.  He  ceased  from  his  more  perilous  rambles.  He  thought 
less  of  the  danger  from  the  great  overhanging  rocks  and 
forests;  they  had  hung  there  for  centuries;  it  was  not  very 
likely  they  would  crash  or  slide  in  his  time.  He  became 
accustomed  to  all  Elsie's  strange  looks  and  ways.  Old  Sophy 
dressed  her  with  ruffles  round  her  neck,  and  hunted  up  the 
red  coral  branch  with  silver  bells  which  the  little  toothless 
Dudleys  had  bitten  upon  for  a  hundred  years.  By  an  in 
finite  effort,  her  father  forced  himself  to  become  the  com 
panion  of  this  child,  for  whom  he  had  such  a  mingled  feel 
ing,  but  whose  presence  was  always  a  trial  to  him  and  often 
a  terror. 


FROM    WITHOUT    AND    FROM    WITHIN.  205 

At  a  cost  which  no  human  being  could  estimate,  he  had 
done  his  duty,  and  in  some  degree  reaped  his  reward.  Elsie 
grew  up  with  a  kind  of  filial  feeling  for  him,  such  as  her 
nature  was  capable  of.  She  never  would  obey  him;  that 
was  not  to  be  looked  for.  Commands,  threats,  punishments, 
were  out  of  the  question  with  her;  the  mere  physical  effects  ) 
of  crossing  her  will  betrayed  themselves  in  such  changes  of 
expression  and  manner  that  it  would  have  been  senseless  to 
attempt  to  govern  her  in  any  such  way.  Leaving  her  mainly 
to  herself,  she  could  be  to  some  extent  indirectly  influenced, 
— not  otherwise.  She  called  her  father  "  Dudley,"  as  if  he 
had  been  her  brother.  She  ordered  everybody  and  would 
be  ordered  by  none. 

Who  could  know  all  these  things,  except  the  few  people  of 
the  household?  What  wonder,  therefore,  that  ignorant  and 
shallow  persons  laid  the  blame  on  her  father  of  those  peculiari 
ties  which  were  freely  talked  about, — of  those  darkeu  tenden 
cies  which  were  hinted  of  in  whispers  ?  To  all  this  talk,  so  far 
as  it  reached  him,  he  was  supremely  indifferent,  not  only 
with  the  indifference  which  all  gentlemen  feel  to  the  gossip 
of  their  inferiors,  but  with  a  charitable  calmness  which  did 
not  wonder  or  blame.  He  knew  that  his  position  was  not 
simply  a  difficult^but  an  impossible  one,  and  schooled  himself 
to  bear  his  destiny  as  well  as  he  might,  and  report  himself 
only  at  Headquarters. 

He  had  grown  gentle  under  this  discipline.  His  hair  was 
just  beginning  to  be  touched  with  silver,  and  his  expression 
was  that  of  habitual  sadness  and  anxiety.  He  had  no  coun 
selor,  as  we  have  seen,  to  turn  to,  who  did  not  know  either 
too  much  or  too  little.  He  had  no  heart  to  rest  upon  and 
into  which  he  might  unburden  himself  of  the  secrets  and 
the  sorrows  that  were  aching  in  his  own  breast.  Yet  he  had 
not  allowed  himself  to  run  to  waste  in  the  long  time  since 
he  was  left  alone  to  his  trials  and  fears.  He  had  resisted 
the  seductions  which  always  beset  solitary  men  with  restless 
brains  overwrought  by  depressing  agencies.  He  disguised 
no  misery  to  himself  with  the  lying  delusion  of  wine.  He 
sought  no  sleep  from  narcotics,  though  he  lay  with  throb 
bing,  wide-open  eyes  through  all  the  weary  hours  of  the 
night. 

It  was  understood  between  Dudley  Venner  and  old  Doctor 
Kittredge  that  Elsie  was  a  subject  of  occasional  medical 


206  ELSIE    VENNER. 

observation,  on  account  of  certain  mental  peculiarities  which 
might  end  in  a  permanent  affection  of  her  reason.  Beyond 
this  nothing  was  said,  whatever  may  have  been  in  the  mind 
of  either.  But  Dudley  Venner  had  studied  Elsie's  t  case  in 
the  light  of  all  the  books  he  could  find  which  might  do  any- 
ching  towards  explaining  it.  As  in  all  cases  where  men 
meddle  with  medical  science  for  a  special  purpose,  having 
no  previous  acquaintance  with  it,  his  imagination  found 
what  it  wanted  in  the  books  he  read,  and  adjusted  it  to  the 
facts  before  him.  So  it  was  he  came  to  cherish  those  two 
fancies  before  alluded  to:  that  the  ominous  birth-mark  she 
had  carried  from  infancy  might  fade  and  become  obliterated, 
and  that  the  age  of  complete  maturity  might  be  signalized 
by  an  entire  change  in  her  physical  and  mental  state.  He 
held  these  vague  hopes  as  all  of  us  nurse  our  only  half- 
believed  illusions.  Not  for  the  world  would  he  have  ques 
tioned  his  sagacious  old  medical  friend  as  to  the  probability 
or  possibility  of  their  being  true.  We  are  very  shy  of  asking 
questions  of  those  who  know  enough  to  destroy  with  one 
word  the  hopes  we  live  on. 

In  this  life  of  comparative  seclusion  to  which  the  father 
had  doomed  himself  for  the  sake  of  his  child,  he  had  found 
time  for  large  and  varied  reading.  The  learned  Judge 
^Thornton  confessed  himself  surprised  at  the  extent  of  Dud 
ley  Vernier's  information.  Doctor  Kittredge  found  that  he 
was  in  advance  of  him  in  the  knowledge  of  recent  physiologi 
cal  discoveries.  He  had  taken  pains  to  become  acquainted 
with  agricultural  chemistry;  and  the  neighboring  farmers 
owed  him  some  useful  hints  about  the  management  of  their 
land.  He  renewed  his  old  acquaintance  with  the  classic 
authors.  He  loved  to  warm  his  pulses  with  Homer  and  calm 
them  down  with  Horace.  He  received  all  manner  of  new 
books  and  periodicals,  and  gradually  gained  an  interest  in 
the  events  of  the  passing  time.  Yet  he  remained  almost 
a  hermit,  not  absolutely  refusing  to  see  his  neighbors,  nor 
ever  churlish  towards  them,  but  on  the  other  hand  not  cul 
tivating  any  intimate  relations  with  them. 

He  had  retired  from  the  world  a  young  man,  little  more 
than  a  youth,  indeed,  with  sentiments  and  aspirations  all 
of  them  suddenly  extinguished.  The  first  had  bequeathed 
him  a  single  huge  sorrow,  the  second  a  single  trying  duty. 
In  due  time  the  anguish  had  lost  something  of  its  poignancy, 


FROM    WITHOUT    AND    FROM    WITHIN.  207 

the  light  of  earlier  and  happier  memories  had  begun  to 
struggle  with  and  to  soften  its  thick  darkness,  and  even  that 
duty  which  he  had  confronted  with  such  an  effort  had  be 
come  an  endurable  habit. 

At  a  period  of  life  when  many  have  been  living  on  the 
capital  of  their  acquired  knowledge  and  their  youthful  stock 
of  sensibilities  until  their  intellects  are  really  shallower 
and  their  hearts  emptier  than  they  were  at  twenty,  Dudley 
Venner  was  stronger  in  thought  and  tenderer  in  soul  than 
in  the  first  freshness  of  his  youth,  when  he  counted  but  half 
his  present  years.  lie  had  entered  that  period  which  marks 
the  decline  of  men  who  have  ceased  growing  in  knowledge 
and  strength :  from  forty  to  fifty  a  man  must  move  upward, 
or  the  natural  falling  off  in  the  vigor  of  life  will  carry  him 
rapidly  downward.  At  this  time  his  inward  nature  was 
richer  and  deeper  than  in  any  earlier  period  of  his  life.  If  he 
could  only  be  summoned  to  action,  he  was  capable  of  noble 
service.  If  his  sympathies  could  only  find  an  outlet,  he  was 
never  so  capable  of  love  as  now;  for  his  natural  affections 
had  been  gathering  in  the  course  of  all  these  years,  and  the 
traces  of  that  ineffaceable  calamity  of  his  life  were  softened 
and  partially  hidden  by  new  growths  of  thought  and  feeling, 
as  the  wreck  left  by  a  mountain-side  is  covered  over  by  the 
gentle  intrusion  of  the  soft-stemmed  herbs  which  will  pre 
pare  it  for  the  stronger  vegetation  that  will  bring  it  once 
more  into  harmony  with  the  peaceful  slopes  around  it. 

Perhaps    Dudley    Venner    had    not    gained    so    much    in  \ 
worldly  wisdom  as  if  he  had  been  more  in  society  and  less  \ 
in  his  study.     The  indulgence  with  which  he  treated  his 
nephew   was,   no  doubt,   imprudent.     A  man   more  in   the 
habit  of  dealing  with  men  would  have  been  more  guarded 
with  a  person  with  Dick's  questionable  story  and  unquestion 
able  physiognomy.    But  he  was  singularly  unsuspicious,  and 
his  natural  kindness  was  an  additional  motive  to  the  wish  for 
introducing  some  variety  into  the  routine  of  Elsie's  life. 

If  Dudley  Venner  did  not  know  just  what  he  wanted  at 
this  period  of  his  life,  there  were  a  great  many  people  in 
the  town  of  Rockland  who  thought  they  did  know.  He  had 
been  a  widower  long  enough, — nigh  twenty  year,  wa'n't  it? 
He'd  been  aout  to  Spraowle's  party, — there  wa'n't  anything 
to  hender  him  why  he  shouldn't  stir  raound  1'k  other  folks. 
What  was  the  reason  he  didn't  go  abaout  to  taown-meetin's 


208  ELSIE   VENNER. 

'n'  Sahbath-meetin's,  'n'  lyceums,  'n'  schoool-'xaminations,  'n' 
s'prise-parties,  'n'  funerals, — and  other  entertainments  where 
the  still-faced  two-story  folks  were  in  the  habit  of  looking 
round  to  see  if  any  of  the  mansion-house  gentry  were  pres 
ent? — Fac'  was,  he  was  livin'  too  lonesome  daown  there  at 
the  mansion-haouse.  Why  shouldn't  he  make  up  to  the 
Jedge's  daughter?  She  was  genteel  enough  for  him  and — 
let's  see,  haow  old  was  she?  Seven-'n'- twenty, — no,  six-'n'- 
twenty, — born  the  same  year  we  buried  aour  little  Anny 
Marf. 

There  was  no  possible  objection  to  this  arrangement,  if 
the  parties  interested  had  seen  fit  to  make  it  or  even  to 
think  of  it.  But  "  Portia."  as  some  of  the  mansion-house 
people  called  her,  did  not  happen  to  awaken  the  elective  affini 
ties  of  the  lonely  widower.  He  met  her  once  in  a  while,  and 
said  to  himself  that  she  was  a  good  specimen  of  the  grand 
style  of  woman ;  and  then  the  image  came  back  to  him  of  a 
woman  not  quite  so  large,  not  quite  so  imperial  in  her  port, 
not  quite  so  incisive  in  her  speech,  not  quite  so  judicial  in 
her  opinions,  but  with  two  or  three  more  joints  in  her  frame, 
and  two  or  three  soft  inflections  in  her  voice,  which  for 
some  absurd  reason  or  other  drew  him  to  her  side  and  so 
bewitched  him  that  he  told  her  half  his  secrets  and  looked 
into  her  eyes  all  that  he  could  not  tell,  in  less  time  than 
it  would  have  taken  him  to  discuss  the  champion  paper  of 
the  last  Quarterly  with  the  admirable  "  Portia."  Heu, 
quanto  minus!  How  much  more  was  that  lost  image  to 
him  than  all  it  left  on  earth! 

The  study  of  love  is  very  much  like  that  of  meteorology. 
We  know  that  just  about  so  much  rain  will  fall  in  a  season ; 
but  on  what  particular  day  it  will  shower  is  more  than  we 
can  tell.  We  know  that  just  about  so  much  love  will  be 
made  every  year  in  a  given  population;  but  who  will  rain 
his  young  affections  upon  the  heart  of  whom  is  not  known 
except  to  the  astrologers  "and  fortune-tellers.  And  why  rain 
falls  as  it  does,  and  why  love  is  made  just  as  it  is,  are  equally 
puzzling  questions. 

The  woman  a  man  loves  is  always  his  own  daughter,  far 

t  more  his  daughter  than  the  female  children  born  to   him 

5  by  the  common  law  of  life.     It  is  not  the  outside  woman, 

who  takes  his  name,  that  he  loves:  before  her  image  has 

reached  the  center  of  his  consciousness,  it  has  passed  through 


FEOM    WITHOUT    AND    FROM    WITHIN.  209 

fifty  many-layered  nerve-strainers,  been  churned  over  by  ten 
thousand  pulse-beats,  and  reacted  upon  by  millions  of  lateral 
impulses  which  bandy  it  about  through  the  mental  spaces 
as  a  reflection  is  sent  back  and  forward  in  a  saloon  lined 
with  mirrors.  With  this  altered  image  of  the  woman  before 
him,  his  preexisting  ideal  becomes  blended.  The  object  of 
his  love  is  in  part  the  offspring  of  her  legal  parents,  but 
more  of  her  lover's  brain.  The  difference  between  the  real 
and  the  ideal  objects  of  love  must  not  exceed  a  fixed  maxi 
mum.  The  heart's  vision  cannot  unite  them  stereoscopically 
into  a  single  image,  if  the  divergence  passes  certain  limits. 
A  formidable  analogy,  much  in  the  nature  of  a  proof,  with 
very  serious  consequences,  which  moralists  and  match 
makers  would  do  well  to  remember !  Double  vision  with  the 
eyes  of  the  heart  is  a  dangerous  physiological  state,  and  may 
lead  to  missteps  and  serious  falls. 

Whether  Dudley  Venner  would  ever  find  a  breathing 
image  near  enough  to  his  ideal  one,  to  fill  the  desolate 
chamber  of  his  heart,  or  not,  was  very  doubtful.  Some 
gracious  and  gentle  woman,  whose  influence  would  steal 
upon  him  as  the  first  low  words  of  prayer  after  that  interval 
of  silent  mental  supplication  known  to  one  of  our  simpler 
forms  of  public  worship,  gliding  into  his  consciousness  with 
out  hurting  its  old  griefs,  herself  knowing  the  chastening 
of  sorrow,  and  subdued  into  sweet  acquiescence  with  the 
Divine  will, — some  such  woman  as  this,  if  Heaven  should 
send  him  such,  might  call  him  back  to  the  world  of  happi 
ness,  from  which  he  seemed  forever  exiled.  He  could  never 
again  be  the  young  lover  who  walked  through  the  garden- 
alleys  all  red  with  roses  in  the  old  dead  and  buried  June  of 
long  ago.  He  could  never  forget  the  bride  of  his  youth, 
whose  image,  growing  phantom-like  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
hovered  over  him  like  a  dream  while  waking  and  like  a  I, 
reality  in  dreams.  But  if  it  might  be  in  God's  good  provi 
dence  that  this  desolate  life  should  come  under  the  influence 
of  human  affections  once  more,  what  an  ecstasy  of  renewed 
existence  was  in  store  for  him!  His  life  had  not  all  been 
buried  under  that  narrow  ridge  of  turf  with  the  white  stone 
at  its  head.  It  seemed  so  for  a  while;  but  it  was  not  and 
could  not  and  ought  not  to  be  so.  His  first  passion  had 
been  a  true  and  pure  one;  there  was  no  spot  or  stain  upon 
it.  With  all  his  grief  there  blended  no  cruel  recollection 


210  ELSIE   VENNER. 

of  any  word  or  look  he  would  have  wished  to  forget.  All 
those  little  differences,  such  as  young  married  people  with 
any  individual  flavor  in  their  characters  must  have,  if  they 
are  tolerably  mated,  had  only  added  to  the  music  of  exist 
ence,  as  the  lesser  discords  admitted  into  some  perfect  sym 
phony,  fitly  resolved,  add  richness  and  strength  to  the  whole 
harmonious  movement.  It  was  a  deep  wound  that  Fate  had 
inflicted  on  him;  nay,  it  seemed  like  a  mortal  one;  but  the 
weapon  was  clean,  and  its  edge  was  smooth.  Such  wounds 
must  heal  with  time  in  healthy  natures,  whatever  a  false 
sentiment  may  say,  by  the  wise  and  beneficent  law  of  our 
being.  The  recollection  of  a  deep  and  true  affection  is 
rather  a  divine  nourishment  for  a  life  to  grow  strong  upon 
than  a  poison  to  destroy  it. 

Dudley  Venner's  habitual  sadness  could  not  be  laid  wholly 
to  his  early  bereavement.  It  was  partly  the  result  of  the 
long  struggle  between  natural  affection  and  duty,  on  one 
side,  and  the  involuntary  tendencies  these  had  to  overcome, 
on  the  other, — between  hope  and  fear,  so  long  in  conflict 
that  despair  itself  would  have  been  like  an  anodyne,  and  he 
would  have  slept  upon  some  final  catastrophe  with  the  heavy 
sleep  of  a  bankrupt  after  his  failure  is  proclaimed.  Alas! 
some  new  affection  might  perhaps  rekindle  the  fires  of  youth 
in  his  heart ;  but  what  power  could  calm  that  haggard  terror 
of  the  parent  which  rose  with  every  morning's  sun  and 
watched  with  every  evening  star, — what  power  save  alone 
that  of  him  who  comes  bearing  the  inverted  torch,  and  leav 
ing  after  him  only  the  ashes  printed  with  his  footsteps  ? 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE    WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A    TEA-PARTY. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  -interest  felt,  as  has  been  said, 
in  the  lonely  condition  of  Dudley  Venner  in  that  fine  man 
sion-house  of  his,  and  with  that  strange  daughter,  who  would 
never  be  married,  as  many  people  thought,  in  spite  of  all  the 
stories.  The  feelings  expressed  by  the  good  folks  who  dated 
from  the  time  when  they  "  buried  aour  little  Anny  Mari'," 
and  others  of  that  homespun  stripe,  were  founded  in  reason, 
after  all.  And  so  it  was  natural  enough  that  they  should  be 
shared  by  various  ladies,  who,  having  conjugated  the  verb 
to  live  as  far  as  the  preterpluperfect  tense,  were  ready  to 
change  one  of  its  vowels  and  begin  with  it  in  the  present 
indicative.  Unfortunately,  there  was  very  little  chance  of 
showing  sympathy  in  its  active  form  for  a  gentleman  who 
kept  himself  so  much  out  of  the  way  as  the  master  of  the 
Dudley  Mansion. 

Various  attempts  had  been  made,  from  time  to  time,  of 
late  years,  to  get  him  out  of  his  study,  which  had,  for  the 
most  part,  proved  failures.  It  was  a  surprise,  therefore, 
when  he  was  seen  at  the  Great  Party  at  the  Colonel's.  But 
it  was  an  encouragement  to  try  him  again,  and  the  conse 
quence  had  been  that  he  had  received  a  number  of  notes 
inviting  him  to  various  smaller  entertainments,  which,  as 
neither  he  nor  Elsie  had  any  fancy  for  them,  he  had  politely 
declined. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  he  received  an  invita 
tion  to  take  tea  sociably,  with  a  few  friends,  at  Hyacinth 
Cottage,  the  residence  of  the  Widow  Rowens,  relict  of  the 
late  Beeri  Rowens,  Esquire,  better  known  as  Major  Rowens. 
Major  Rowens  was  at  the  time  of  his  decease  a  promising 
officer  in  the  militia,  in  the  direct  line  of  promotion,  as  his 
waistband  was  getting  tighter  every  year;  and,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  the  militia-officer  who  splits  off  most  buttons 
and  fills  the  largest  sword-belt  stands  the  best  chance  of 
rising,  or,  perhaps  we  might  say,  spreading,  to  be  General. 


212  ELSIE    VENNER. 

Major  Rowens  united  in  his  person  certain  other  traits 
which  help  a  man  to  eminence  in  the  branch  of  public 
service  referred  to.  He  ran  to  high  colors,  to  wide  whiskers, 
to  open  pores;  he  had  the  saddle-leather  skin  common  in 
Englishmen,  rarer  in  Americans, — never  found  in  the  Brah 
min  caste,  oftener  in  the  military  and  the  commodores:  ob 
serving  people  know  what  is  meant;  blow  the  seed-arrows 
from  the  white-kid-looking  button  which  holds  them  on  a 
dandelion-stalk,  and  the  pricked  pincushion  surface  shows 
you  what  to  look  for.  He  had  the  loud,  gruff  voice  which 
implies  the  right  to  command.  He  had  the  thick  hand, 
stubbed  fingers,  with  bristled  pads  between  their  joints, 
square,  broad  thumb-nails,  and  sturdy  limbs,  which  mark  a 
constitution  made  to  use  in  rough  out-door  work.  He  had 
the  never-failing  predilection  for  showy  switch-tailed  horses 
that  step  high,  and  sidle  about,  and  act  as  if  they  were 
going  to  do  something  fearful  the  next  minute,  in  the  face 
of  awed  and  admiring  multitudes  gathered  at  mighty  mus 
ters  or  imposing  cattle-shows.  He  had  no  objection,  either, 
to  holding  the  reins  in  a  wagon  behind  another  kind  of  horse, 
— a  slouching,  listless  beast,  with  a  strong  slant  to  his  shoul 
der  and  a  notable  depth  to  his  quarter  and  an  emphatic 
angle  at  the  hock,  who  commonly  walked  or  lounged  along 
in  a  lazy  trot  of  five  or  six  miles  an  hour;  but,  if  a  lively 
colt  happened  to  come  rattling  up  alongside,  or  a  brandy- 
faced  old  horse- jockey  took  the  road  to  show  off  a  fast  nag, 
and  threw  his  dust  into  the  Major's  face,  would  pick  his 
legs  up  all  at  once,  and  straighten  his  body  out,  and  swing 
off  into  a  three-minute  gait,  in  a  way  that  "  Old  Blue  "  him 
self  need  not  have  been  ashamed  of. 

For  some  reason  which  must  be  left  to  the  next  genera 
tion  of  professors  to  find  out,  the  men  who  are  knowing  in 

horse-flesh  have  an  eye  also  for, let  a  long  dash  separate 

the  brute  creation  from  the  angelic  being  now  to  be  named, 
— for  lovely  woman.  Of  this  fact  there  can  be  no  possible 
doubt;  and  therefore  you  shall  notice,  that,  if  a  fast  horse 
trots  before  two,  one  of  the  twain  is  apt  to  be  a  pretty  bit 
of  muliebrity,  with  shapes  to  her,  and  eyes  flying  about  in 
all  directions. 

Major  Rowens,  at  that  time  Lieutenant  of  the  E-ockland 
Fusileers,  had  driven  and  "  traded  "  horses  not  a  few  before 
he  turned  his  acquired  skill  as  a  judge  of  physical  advan- 


THE   WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PARTY. 

tages  in  another  direction.  He  knew  a  neat,  snug  hoof,  a 
delicate  pastern,  a  broad  haunch,  a  deep  chest,  a  close  ribbed- 
up  barrel,  as  well  as  any  other  man  in  the  town.  He  was 
not  to  be  taken  in  by  your  thick-jointed,  heavy-headed  cattle, 
without  any  go  to  them,  that  suit  a  country-parson,  nor  yet 
by  the  "  gaanted-up,"  long-legged  animals,  with  all  their  con 
stitutions  bred  out  of  them,  such  as  rich  greenhorns  buy 
and  cover  up  with  their  plated  trappings. 

Whether  his  equine  experience  was  of  any  use  to  him  in 
the  selection  of  the  mate  with  whom  he  was  to  go  in  double 
harness  so  long  as  they  both  should  live,  we  need  not  stop 
to  question.  At  any  rate,  nobody  could  find  fault  with  the 
points  of  Miss  Marilla  Van  Deusen,  to  whom  he  offered  the 
privilege  of  becoming  Mrs.  Rowens.  The  Van  must  have 
been  crossed  out  of  her  blood,  for  she  was  an  out-and-out 
brunette,  with  hair  and  eyes  black  enough  for  a  Mohawk's 
daughter.  A  fine  style  of  woman,  with  very  striking  tints 
and  outlines, — an  excellent  match  for  the  Lieutenant,  except 
for  one  thing.  She  was  marked  by  Nature  for  a  widow.  She 
was  evidently  got  up  for  mourning,  and  never  looked  so 
well  as  in  deep  black,  with  jet  ornaments. 

The  man  who  should  dare  to  marry  her  would  doom  him 
self;  for  how  could  she  become  the  widow  she  was  bound  to 
be,  unless  he  would  retire  and  give  her  a  chance?  The  Lieu 
tenant  lived,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  to  become  Captain 
and  then  Major,  with  prospects  of  further  advancement. 
But  Mrs.  Rowens  often  said  she  should  never  look  well  in 
colors.  At  last  her  destiny  fulfilled  itself,  and  the  justice  of 
Nature  was  vindicated.  Major  Rowens  got  overheated  gal 
loping  about  the  field  on  the  day  of  the  Great  Muster,  and 
had  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  according  to  the  common 
report, — at  any  rate,  something  which  stopped  him  short  in 
his  career  of  expansion  and  promotion,  and  established  Mrs. 
Rowens  in  her  normal  condition  of  widowhood. 

The  Widow  Rowens  was  now  in  the  full  bloom  of  orna 
mental  sorrow.  A  very  shallow  crape  bonnet,  frilled  and 
froth-like,  allowed  the  parted  raven  hair  to  show  its  glossy 
smoothness.  A  jet  pin  heaved  upon  her  bosom  with  every 
sigh  of  memory,  or  emotion  of  unknown  origin.  Jet  brace 
lets  shone  with  every  movement  of  her  slender  hands,  cased 
in  close-fitting  black  gloves.  Her  sable  dress  was  rigid  with 
manifold  flounces,  from  beneath  which  a  small  foot  showed 


214  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

itself  from  time  to  time,  clad  in  the  same  hue  of  mourning. 
Everything  about  her  was  dark,  except  the  whites  of  her 
eyes  and  the  enamel  of  her  teeth.  The  effect  was  complete. 
Gray's  Elegy  was  not  a  more  perfect  composition. 

Much  as  the  Widow  was  pleased  with  the  costume  belong 
ing  to  her  condition,  she  did  not  disguise  from  herself  that 
under  certain  circumstances  she  might  be  willing  to  change 
her  name  again.  Thus,  for  instance,  if  a  gentleman  not  too 
far  gone  in  maturity,  of  dignified  exterior,  with  an  ample 
fortune,  and  of  unexceptionable  character,  should  happen 
to  set  his  heart  upon  her,  and  the  only  way  to  ma^.e  him 
happy  was  to  give  up  her  weeds  and  go  into  those  unbecom 
ing  colors  again  for  his  sake, — why,  she  felt  that  it  was  in 
her  nature  to  make  the  sacrifice.  By  a  singular  coincidence 
it  happened  that  a  gentleman  was  now  living  in  Rockland 
who  united  in  himself  all  these  advantages.  Who  he  was, 
the  sagacious  reader  may  very  probably  have  divined.  Just 
to  see  how  it  looked,  one  day,  having  bolted  her  door,  and 
drawn  the  curtains  close,  and  glanced  under  the  sofa,  and 
listened  at  the  keyhole  to  be  sure  there  was  nobody  in  the 
entry, — just  to  see  how  it  looked,  she  had  taken  out  an 
envelope  and  written  on  the  back  of  it  Mrs.  Marilla  Venner. 
It  made  her  head  swim  and  her  knees  tremble.  What  if  she 
should  faint,  or  die,  or  have  a  stroke  of  palsy,  and  they 
should  break  into  the  room  and  find  that  name  written? 
How  she  caught  it  up  and  tore  it  into  little  shreds,  and 
then  could  not  be  easy  until  she  had  burned  the  small  heap 
of  pieces!  But  these  are  things  which  every  honorable 
reader  will  consider  imparted  in  strict  confidence. 

The  Widow  Rowens,  though  not  of  the  mansion-house  set, 
was  among  the  most  genteel  of  the  two-story  circle,  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  visiting  some  of  the  great  people.  In  one 
of  these  visits  she  met  a  dashing  young  fellow  with  an  olive 
complexion  at  the  house  of  a  professional  gentleman  who 
had  married  one  of  the  white  necks  and  pairs  of  fat  arms 
from  a  distinguished  family  before  referred  to.  The  pro 
fessional  gentleman  himself  was  out,  but  the  lady  intro 
duced  the  olive-complexioned  young  man  as  Mr.  Richard 
Venner. 

The  Widow  was  particularly  pleased  with  this  accidental 
meeting.  Had  heard  Mr.  Venner's  name  frequently  men 
tioned.  Hoped  his  uncle  was  well,  and  his  charming  cousin, 


THE   WIDOW    EOWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PARTY.       215 

— was  she  as  original  as  ever?  Had  often  admired  that 
charming  creature  he  rode:  we  had  had  some  fine  horses. 
Had  never  got  over  her  taste  for  riding,  but  could  find  no 
body  that  liked  a  good  long  gallop  since well — she 

couldn't  help  wishing  she  was  alongside  of  him,  the  other 
day,  when  she  saw  him  dashing  by,  just  at  twilight. 

The  Widow  paused;  lifted  a  flimsy  handkerchief  with  a 
very  deep  black  border  so  as  to  play  the  jet  bracelet;  pushed 
the  tip  of  her  slender  foot  beyond  the  lowest  of  her  black 
flounces;  looked  up;  looked  down;  looked  at  Mr.  Richard, 
the  very  picture  of  artless  simplicity, — as  represented  in 
well-played  genteel  comedy. 

"  A  good  bit  of  stuff,"  Dick  said  to  himself, — "  and  some 
thing  of  it  left  yet;  caramba!  "  The  Major  had  not  studied 
points  for  nothing,  and  the  Widow  was  one  of  the  right 
sort.  The  young  man  had  been  a  little  restless  of  late,  and 
was  willing  to  vary  his  routine  by  picking  up  an  acquaint 
ance  here  and  there.  So  he  took  the  Widow's  hint.  He 
should  like  to  have  a  scamper  of  half  a  dozen  miles  with  her 
some  fine  morning. 

The  Widow  was  infinitely  obliged ;  was  not  sure  that  she 
could  find  any  horse  in  the  village  to  suit  her;  but  it  was 
so  kind  in  him !  WTould  he  not  call  at  Hyacinth  Cottage,  and 
let  her  thank  him  again  there? 

Thus  began  an  acquaintance  which  the  Widow  made  the 
most  of,  and  on  the  strength  of  which  she  determined  to 
give  a  tea-party  and  invite  a  number  of  persons  of  whom 
we  know  something  already.  She  took  a  half-sheet  of  note- 
paper  and  made  out  her  list  as  carefully  as  a  country  "  mer 
chant's  "  "  clerk "  adds  up  two  and  threepence  (New  Eng 
land  momenclature)  and  twelve  and  a  half  cents,  figure  by 
figure,  and  fraction  by  fraction,  before  he  can  be  sure  they 
will  make  half  a  dollar,  without  cheating  somebody.  After 
much  consideration  the  list  reduced  itself  to  the  following 
names:  Mr.  Richard  Venner  and  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer, 
the  lady  at  whose  house  she  had  met  him, — mansion-house 
breed, — but  will  come, — soft  on  Dick;  Dudley  Venner, — 
take  care  of  him  herself ;  Elsie, — Dick  will  see  to  her, — won't 
it  fidget  the  Creamer  woman  to  see  him  round  her?  the  old 
Doctor, — he's  always  handy;  and  there's  that  young  master 
there,  up  at  the  school, — know  him  well  enough  to  ask  him, 
• — oh,  yes,  he'll  come.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six, — seven; 


216  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

not  room  enough,  without  the  leaf  in  the  table;  one  place 
empty,  if  the  leaf's  in.  Let's  see, — Helen  Darley, — she'll  do 
well  enough  to  fill  it  up, — why,  yes,  just  the  thing, — light 
brown  hair,  blue  eyes, — won't  my  pattern  show  off  well 
against  her?  Put  her  down, — she's  worth  her  tea  and  toast 
ten  times  over, — nobody  knows  what  a  "  thunder-and-light- 
ning  woman,"  as  poor  Major  used  to  have  it,  is,  till  she  gets 
alongside  of  one  of  those  old-maidish  girls,  with  hair  the 
color  of  brown  sugar,  and  eyes  like  the  blue  of  a  teacup. 

The  Widow  smiled  with  a  feeling  of  triumph  at  having 
overcome  her  difficulties  and  arranged  her  party, — arose  and 
stood  before  her  glass,  three-quarters  front,  one-quarter 
profile,  so  as  to  show  the  whites  of  the  eyes  and  the  down  of 
the  upper  lip.  "  Splendid !  "  said  the  Widow, — and  to  tell 
the  truth,  she  was  not  far  out  of  the  way,  and  with  Helen 
Darley  as  a  foil  anybody  would  know  that  she  must  be 
foudroyant  and  pyramidal, — if  these  French  adjectives  may 
be  naturalized  for  this  one  particular  exigency. 

So  the  Widow  sent  out  her  notes.  The  black  grief  which 
had  filled  her  heart  and  overflowed  in  surges  of  crape  around 
her  person  had  left  a  deposit  half  an  inch  wide  at  the  margin 
of  her  note-paper.  Her  seal  was  a  small  youth  with  an  in 
verted  torch,  the  same  on  which  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer  made 
her  spiteful  remark,  that  she  expected  to  see  that  boy  of  the 
Widow's  standing  on  his  head  yet;  meaning,  as  Dick  sup 
posed,  that  she  would  get  the  torch  right-side  up  as  soon  as 
she  had  a  chance.  That  was  after  Dick  had  made  the  Wid 
ow's  acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Creamer  had  got  it  into  her 
foolish  head  that  she  would  marry  that  young  fellow,  if  she 
could  catch  him.  How  could  he  ever  come  to  fancy  such 
a  quadroon-looking  thing  as  that,  she  should  like  to 
know? 

It  is  easy  enough  to  ask  seven  people  to  a  party;  but 
whether  they  will  come  or  not  is  an  open  question,  as  it  was 
in  the  case  of  the  spirits  of  the  vasty  deep.  If  the  note  issues 
from  a  three-story  mansion-house,  and  goes  to  two-story  ac 
quaintances,  they  will  all  be  in  an  excellent  state  of  health, 
and  have  much  pleasure  in  accepting  this  very  polite  invi 
tation.  If  the  note  is  from  the  lady  of  a  two-story  family 
to  three-story  ones,  the  former  highly  respectable  person 
will  very  probably  find  that  an  endemic  complaint  is  prev 
alent,  not  represented  in  the  weekly  bills  of  mortality,  which 


THE    WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A    TEA-PAETY.       217 

occasions  numerous  regrets  in  the  bosoms  of  eminently  de 
sirable  parties  that  they  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  and- 
so-forthing. 

In  this  case  there  was  room  for  doubt, — mainly  as  to 
whether  Elsie  would  take  a  fancy  to  come  or  not.  If  she 
should  come,  her  father  would  certainly  be  with  her.  Dick 
had  promised,  and  thought  he  could  bring  Elsie.  Of  course 
the  young  schoolmaster  will  come,  and  that  poor,  tired-out 
looking  Helen, — if  only  to  get  out  of  sight  of  those  horrid 
Peckham  wretches.  They  don't  get  such  invitations  every 
day.  The  others  she  felt  sure  of, — all  but  the  old  Doctor, — 
he  might  have  some  horrid  patient  or  other  to  visit;  tell 
him  Elsie  Venner's  going  to  be  there, — he  always  likes  to 
have  an  eye  on  her,  they  say, — oh,  he'd  come  fast  enough, 
without  any  more  coaxing. 

She  wanted  the  Doctor,  particularly.  It  was  odd,  but  she 
was  afraid  of  Elsie.  She  felt  as  if  she  should  be  safe 
enough,  if  the  old  Doctor  were  there  to  see  to  the  girl;  and 
then  she  should  have  leisure  to  devote  herself  more  freely 
to  the  young  lady's  father,  for  whom  all  her  sympathies  were 
in  a  state  of  lively  excitement. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  the  Widow  had  seen  so  many 
persons  round  her  table  as  she  had  now  invited.  Better  have 
the  plates  set  and  see  how  they  will  fill  it  up  with  the  leaf 
in. — A  little  too  scattering  with  only  eight  plates  set;  if  she 
could  find  two  more  people,  now,  that  would  bring  the  chairs 
a  little  closer, — snug,  you  know, — which  makes  the  company 
sociable.  The  Widow  thought  over  her  acquaintances.  Why ! 
how  stupid !  there  was  her  good  minister,  the  same  who  had 
married  her,  and  might — might — bury  her  for  aught  she 
knew,  and  his  granddaughter  staying  with  him, — nice  little 
girl,  pretty,  and  not  old  enough  to  be  dangerous; — for  the 
Widow  had  no  notion  of  making  a  tea-party  and  asking 
people  to  it  that  would  be  like  to  stand  between  her  and 
any  little  project  she  might  happen  to  have  on  anybody's 
heart, — not  she!  It  was  all  right  now; — Blanche  was  mar 
ried  and  so  forth ;  Letty  was  a  child ;  Elsie  was  his  daughter ; 
Helen  Darley  was  a  nice,  worthy  drudge, — poor  thing! — 
faded,  faded, — colors  wouldn't  wash, — just  what  she  wanted 
to  show  off  against.  Now,  if  the  Dudley  mansion-house 
people  would  only  come, — that  was  the  great  point. 

"  Here's  a  note  for  us,  Elsie,"  said  her  father  as  they  sat 


218  ELSIE    VENNER. 

round  the  breakfast-table.  "  Mrs.  Rowens  wants  us  all  to 
come  to  tea." 

It  was  one  of  "  Elsie's  days,"  as  Old  Sophy  called  them. 
The  light  in  her  eyes  was  still,  but  very  bright.  She  looked 
up  so  full  of  perverse  and  willful  impulses,  that  Dick  knew 
he  could  make  her  go  with  him  and  her  father.  He  had  his 
own  motives  for  bringing  her  to  this  determination, — and 
his  own  way  of  setting  about  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  say, 
Uncle?" 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Richard,  I  don't  much  fancy  the  Ma 
jor's  widow.  I  don't  like  to  see  her  weeds  flowering  out 
quite  so  strong.  I  suppose  you  don't  care  about  going, 
Elsie?" 

Elsie  looked  up  in  her  father's  face  with  an  expression 
which  he  knew  but  too  well.  She  was  just  in  the  state  which 
the  plain  sort  of  people  call  "  contrary,"  when  they  have  to 
deal  with  it  in  animals.  She  would  insist  on  going  to  that 
tea-party;  he  knew  it  just  as  well  before  she  spoke  as  after 
she  had  spoken.  If  Dick  had  said  he  wanted  to  go  and  her 
father  had  seconded  his  wishes,  she  would  have  insisted  on 
staying  at  home.  It  was  no  great  matter,  her  father  said  to 
himself,  after  all ;  very  likely  it  would  amuse  her ;  the  Widow 
was  a  lively  woman  enough, — perhaps  a  little  comme  il  ne 
faut  pas  socially,  compared  with  the  Thorntons  and  some 
other  families ;  but  what  did  he  care  for  these  petty  village 
distinctions  ? 

Elsie  spoke. 

"  I  mean  to  go.  You  must  go  with  me,  Dudley.  You  may 
do  as  you  like,  Dick." 

That  settled  the  Dudley-mansion  business,  of  course. 
They  all  three  accepted,  as  fortunately  did  all  the  others 
who  had  been  invited. 

Hyacinth  Cottage  was  a  pretty  place  enough,  a  little  too 
much  choked  round  with  bushes,  and  too  much  overrun  with 
climbing-roses,  which,  in  the  season  of  slugs  and  rose-bugs, 
were  apt  to  show  so  brown  about  the  leaves  arid  so  coleop 
terous  about  the  flowers,  that  it  might  be  questioned  whether 
their  buds  and  blossoms  made  up  for  these  unpleasant  animal 
combinations, — especially  as  the  smell  of  whale-oil  soap  was 
very  commonly  in  the  ascendant  over  that  of  the  roses.  It 
had  its  patch  of  grass  called  "  the  lawn,"  and  its  glazed 


THE   WIDOW    EOWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PARTY.       219 

closet  known  as  "  the  conservatory,"  according  to  that  sys 
tem  of  harmless  fictions  characteristic  of  the  rural  imagi 
nation  and  shown  in  the  names  applied  to  many  familiar 
objects.  The  interior  of  the  cottage  was  more  tasteful  and 
ambitious  than  that  of  the  ordinary  two-story  dwellings. 
In  place  of  the  prevailing  hair-cloth-covered  furniture,  the 
visitor  had  the  satisfaction  of  seating  himself  upon  a  chair 
covered  with  some  of  the  Widow's  embroidery,  or  a  sofa  lux 
urious  with  soft  caressing  plush.  The  sporting  tastes  of  the 
late  Major  showed  in  various  prints  on  the  wall :  Herring's 
"Plenipotentiary,"  the  "red  bullock"  of  the  '34  Derby; 
"Cadland"  and  "The  Colonel";  "Crucifix";  "  West- Aus 
tralian,"  fastest  of  modern  racers;  and  among  native  celeb 
rities,  ugly,  game  old  "  Boston,"  with  his  straight  neck  and 
ragged  hips ;  and  gray  "  Lady  Suffolk,"  queen,  in  her  day, 
not  of  the  turf  but  of  the  track,  "  extending  "  herself  till  she 
measured  a  rod,  more  or  less,  skimming  along  within  a  yard 
of  the  ground,  her  legs  opening  and  shutting  under  her  with 
a  snap,  like  the  four  blades  of  a  compound  jack-knife. 

These  pictures  were  much  more  refreshing  than  those 
dreary  fancy  death-bed  scenes,  common  in  two-story  country- 
houses,  "in  which  Washington  and  other  distinguished  per 
sonages  are  represented  as  obligingly  devoting  their  last 
moments  to  taking  a  prominent  part  in  a  tableau,  in  which 
weeping  relatives,  attached  servants,  professional  assistants, 
and  celebrated  personages  who  might  by  a  stretch  of  imagi 
nation  be  supposed  present,  are  grouped  in  the  most  ap 
proved  style  of  arrangement  about  the  chief  actor's  pillow. 

A  single  glazed  bookcase  held  the  family  library,  which 
was  hidden  from  vulgar  eyes  by  green  silk  curtains  behind 
the  glass.  It  would  have  been  instructive  to  get  a  look  at 
it,  as  it  always  is  to  peep  into  one's  neighbor's  bookshelves. 
From  other  sources  and  opportunities  a  partial  idea  of  it 
has  been  obtained.  The  Widow  had  inherited  some  books 
from  her  mother,  who  was  something  of  a  reader:  Young's 
"Night-Thoughts";  "The  Preceptor";  "The  Task,  a 
Poem,"  by  William  Cowper;  Hervey's  "Meditations"; 
"  Alonzo  and  Melissa  " ;  "  Buccaneers  of  America  " ;  "  The 
Triumphs  of  Temper  " ;  "  La  Belle  Assembled  " ;  Thomson's 
"  Seasons  " ;  and  a  few  others.  The  Major  had  brought  in 
"  Tom  Jones  "  and  "  Peregrine  Pickle  " ;  various  works  by 
Mr.  Pierce  Egan;  "Boxiana";  "The  Kacing  Calendar"; 


220  ELSIE   VENNER. 

and  a  "  Book  of  Lively  Songs  and  Jests."  The  Widow  had 
added  the  Poems  of  Lord  Byron  and  T.  Moore ;  "  Eugene 
Aram  " ;  "  The  Tower  of  London,"  by  Harrison  Ainsworth ; 
some  of  Scott's  Novels ;  "  The  Pickwick  Papers  " ;  a  volume 
of  Plays,  by  W.  Shakspere;  "Proverbial  Philosophy"; 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress  ";  "  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man  "  (a  pres 
ent  when  she  was  married) ;  with  two  celebrated  religious 
works,  one  by  William  Law  and  the  other  by  Philip  Dod- 
dridge,  which  were  sent  her  after  her  husband's  death,  and 
which  she  had  tried  to  read,  but  found  that  they  did  not 
agree  with  her.  Of  course  the  bookcase  held  a  few  school 
manuals  and  compendiums,  and  one  of  Mr.  Webster's  Dic 
tionaries.  But  the  gilt-edged  Bible  always  lay  on  the  center- 
table,  next  to  the  magazine  with  the  fashion-plates  and  the 
scrap-book  with  pictures  from  old  annuals  and  illustrated 
papers. 

The  reader  need  not  apprehend  the  recital,  at  full  length, 
of  such  formidable  preparations  for  the  Widow's  tea-party 
as  were  required  in  the  case  of  Colonel  Sprowle's  Social 
Entertainment.  A  tea-party,  even  in  the  country,  is  a  com 
paratively  simple  and  economical  piece  of  business.  As  soon 
as  the  Widow  found  that  all  her  company  were  coming,  she 
set  to  work,  with  the  aid  of  her  "  smart "  maid-servant  and 
a  daughter  of  her  own,  who  was  beginning  to>  stretch  and 
spread  at  a  fearful  rate,  but  whom  she  treated  as  a  small 
child,  to  make  the  necessary  preparations.  The  silver  had 
to  be  rubbed;  also  the  grand  plated  urn, — her  mother's  be 
fore  hers, — style  of  the  Empire, — looking  as  if  it  might  have 
been  made  to  hold  the  Major's  ashes.  Then  came  the  mak 
ing  and  baking  of  cake  and  gingerbread,  the  smell  whereof 
reached  even  as  far  as  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  cottage, 
so  that  small  boys  returning  from  school  snuffed  it  in  the 
breeze,  and  discoursed  with  each  other  on  its  suggestions; 
so  that  the  Widow  Leech,  who  happened  to  pass,  remembered 
she  hadn't  called  on  Marilly  Raowens  for  a  consid'ble  spell, 
and  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  rang  three  times  with  long 
intervals, — but  all  in  vain,  the  inside  Widow  having  "  spot 
ted  "  the  outside  one  through  the  blinds,  and  whispered  to 
her  aides-de-camp  to  let  the  old  thing  ring  away  till  she 
pulled  the  bell  out  by  the  roots,  but  not  to  stir  to  open  the 
door. 

Widow  Rowens  was  what  they  called  a  real  smart,  capable 


THE    WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A    TEA-PAKTY.       221 

woman,  not  very  great  on  books,  perhaps,  but  knew  what  was 
what  and  who  was  who  as  well  as  another, — knew  how  to 
make  the  little  cottage  look  pretty,  how  to  set  out  a  tea-table, 
and,  what  a  good  many  women  never  can  find  out,  knew  her 
own  style  and  "  got  herself  up  tip-top,"  as  our  young  friend 
Master  Geordie,  Colonel  Sprowle's  heir-apparent,  remarked 
to  his  friend  from  one  of  the  fresh-water  colleges.  Flowers 
were  abundant  now,  and  she  had  dressed  her  rooms  tastefully 
with  them.  The  center-table  had  two  or  three  gilt-edged 
books  lying  carelessly  about  on  it,  and  some  prints,  and  a 
stereoscope  with  stereographs  to  match,  chiefly  groups  of 
picnics,  weddings,  etc.,  in  which  the  same  somewhat  fa 
tigued-looking  ladies  of  fashion  and  brides  received  the  at 
tentions  of  the  same  unpleasant-looking  young  men,  easily 
identified  under  their  different  disguises,  consisting  of  fash 
ionable  raiment  such  as  gentlemen  are  supposed  to  wear 
habitually.  With  these,  however,  were  some  pretty  English 
scenes, — pretty  except  for  the  old  fellow  with  the  hanging 
under-lip  who  infests  every  one  of  that  interesting  series; 
and  a  statue  or  two,  especially  that  famous  one  commonly 
called  the  LaJiCQQJlr-SO  as  to  rhyme  with  moon  and  spoon, 
and  representing  an  old  man  with  his  two  sons  in  the  em 
braces  of  two  monstrous  serpents. 

There  is  no  denying  that  it  was  a  very  dashing  achieve 
ment  of  the  Widow's  to  bring  together  so  considerable  a 
number  of  desirable  guests.  She  felt  proud  of  her  feat ;  but 
as  to  the  triumph  of  getting  Dudley  Venner  to  come  out  for 
a  visit  to  Hyacinth  Cottage,  she  was  surprised  and  almost 
frightened  at  her  own  success.  So  much  might  depend  on 
the  impressions  of  that  evening! 

The  next  thing  was  to  be  sure  that  everybody  should  be 
in  the  right  place  at  the  tea-table,  and  this  the  Widow 
thought  she  could  manage  by  a  few  words  to  the  older  guests 
and  a  little  shuffling  about  and  shifting  when  they  got  to 
the  table. 

To  settle  everything  the  Widow  made  out  a  diagram, 
which  the  reader  should  have  a  chance  of  inspecting 
in  an  authentic  copy,  if  these  pages  were  allowed  under  any 
circumstances  to  be  the  vehicle  of  illustrations.  If,  however, 
he  or  she  really  wishes  to  see  the  way  the  pieces  stood  as  they 
were  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the  game,  (the  Widow's 
gambit,)  he  or  she  had  better  at  once  take  a  sheet  of  paper, 


222  ELSIE    VENNER. 

draw  an  oval,  and  arrange  the  characters  according  to  the 
following  schedule. 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  the  Hostess,  Widow  Marilla 
Rowens.  Opposite  her,  at  the  other  end,  Rev.  Dr.  Honey- 
wood.  At  the  right  of  the  Hostess,  Dudley  Venner,  next  him 
Helen  Darley,  next  her  Dr.  Kittredge,  next  him  Mrs. 
Blanche  Creamer,  then  the  Reverend  Doctor.  At  the  left  of 
the  Hostess,  Bernard  Langdon,  next  him  Letty  Forrester, 
next  Letty  Mr.  Richard  Venner,  next  to  him  Elsie,  and  so  to 
,  "^he  Reverend  Doctor  again. 

The  company  came  together  a  little  before  the  early  hour 
at  which  it  was  customary  to  take  tea  in  Rockland.  The 
Widow  knew  everybody,  of  course:  who  was  there  in  Rock- 
land  she  did  not  know?  But  some  of  them  had  to  be  intro 
duced:.  Mr.  Richard  Venner  to  Mr.  Bernard,  Mr.  Bernard 
to  Miss  Letty,  Dudley  Venner  to  Miss  Helen  Darley,  and  so 
on.  The  two  young  men  looked  each  other  straight  in  the 
eyes, — both  full  of  youthful  life,  but  one  of  frank  and  fear 
less  aspect,  the  other  with  a  dangerous  feline  beauty  alien 
to  the  New  England  half  of  his  blood. 

The  guests  talked,  turned  over  the  prints,  looked  at  the 
flowers,  opened  the  "  Proverbial  Philosophy  "  with  gilt  edges, 
and  the  volume  of  Plays  by  W.  Shakspere,  examined  the 
horse-pictures  on  the  walls,  and  so  passed  away  the  time  until 
tea  was  announced,  when  they  paired  off  for  the  room  where 
it  was  in  readiness.  The  Widow  had  managed  it  well ;  every 
thing  was  just  as  she  wanted  it.  Dudley  Venner  was  be 
tween  herself  and  the  poor  tired-looking  schoolmistress  with 
her  faded  colors.  Blanche  Creamer,  a  lax,  tumble-to-pieces, 
Greuze-ish  looking  blonde,  whom  the  Widow  hated  because 
the  men  took  to  her,  was  purgatoried  between  the  two  old 
Doctors,  and  could  see  all  the  looks  that  passed  between  Dick 
Venner  and  his  cousin.  The  young  schoolmaster  could  talk 
to  Miss  Letty:  it  was  his  business  to  know  how  to  talk  to 
schoolgirls.  Dick  would  amuse  himself  with  his  cousin 
Elsie.  The  old  Doctors  only  wanted  to  be  well  fed  and  they 
would  do  well  enough. 

It  would  be  very  pleasant  to  describe  the  tea-table;  but 
in  reality,  it  did  not  pretend  to  offer  a  plethoric  banquet 
to  the  guests.  The  Widow  had  not  visited  at  the  mansion- 
houses  for  nothing,  and  she  had  learned  there  that  an  over 
loaded  tea-table  may  do  well  enough  for  farm-hands  when 


THE    WIDOW    EOWENS    GIVES    A    TEA-PARTY.       223 

they  come  in  at  evening  from  their  work  and  sit  down  un 
washed  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  but  that  for  decently  bred 
people  such  an  insult  to  the  memory  of  a  dinner  not  yet 
half-assimilated  is  wholly  inadmissible.  Everything  was 
delicate,  and  almost  everything  of  fair  complexion :  white 
bread  and  biscuits,  frosted  and  sponge  cake,  cream,  honey, 
straw-colored  butter;  only  a  shadow  here  and  there,  where 
the  fire  had  crisped  and  browned  the  surfaces  of  a  stack  of 
dry  toast,  or  where  a  preserve  had  brought  away  some  of  the 
red  sunshine  of  the  last  year's  summer.  The  Widow  shall 
have  the  credit  of  her  well-ordered  tea-table,  also  of  her 
bountiful  cream-pitchers;  for  it  is  well  known  that  city- 
people  find  cream  a  very  scarce  luxury  in  a  good  many 
country-houses  of  more  pretensions  than  Hyacinth  Cottage. 
There  are  no  better  maxims  for  ladies  who  give  tea-parties 
than  these: — 

Cream  is  thicker  than  water. 

Large  heart  never  loved  little  cream-pot. 

There  is  a  common  feeling  in  genteel  families  that  the 
third  meal  of  the  day  is  not  so  essential  a  part  of  the  daily 
bread  as  to  require  any  especial  acknowledgment  to  the  Provi 
dence  which  bestows  it.  Very  devout  people,  who  would 
never  sit  down  to  a  breakfast  or  a  dinner  without  the  grace 
before  meat  which  honors  the  Giver  of  it,  feel  as  if  they 
thanked  Heaven  enough  for  their  tea  and  toast  by  partaking 
of  them  cheerfully  without  audible  petition  or  ascription. 
But  the  Widow  was  not  exactly  mansion-house-bred,  and  so 
thought  it  necessary  to  give  the  Reverend  Doctor  a  peculiar 
look  which  he  understood  at  once  as  inviting  his  professional 
services.  He,  therefore,  uttered  a  few  simple  words  of  grati 
tude,  very  quietly, — much  to  the  satisfaction  of  some  of  the 
guests,  who  had  expected  one  of  those  elaborate  effusions, 
with  rolling  up  of  the  eyes  and  rhetorical  accents,  so  fre 
quent  with  eloquent  divines  when  they  address  their  Maker 
in  genteel  company. 

Everybody  began  talking  with  the  person  sitting  next  at 
hand.  Mr.  Bernard  naturally  enough  turned  his  attention 
first  to  the  Widow;  but  somehow  or  other  the  right  side  of 
the  Widow  seemed  to  be  more  wide  awake  than  the  left  side, 
next  him,  and  he  resigned  her  to  the  courtesies  of  Mr.  Dud 
ley  Venner,  directing  himself,  not  very  unwillingly,  to  the 
young  girl  next  him  on  the  other  side.  Miss  Letty  Eorrester, 


224  ELSIE    VENNEE. 

the  granddaughter  of  the  Reverend  Doctor,  was  city-bred, 
as  anybody  might  see,  and  city-dressed,  as  any  woman  would 
know  at  sight;  a  man  might  only  feel  the  general  effect  of 
clear,  well-matched  colors,  of  harmonious  proportions,  of  the 
cut  which  makes  everything  cling  like  a  bather's  sleeve  where 
a  natural  outline  is  to  be  kept,  and  ruffle  itself  up  like  the 
hackle  of  a  pitted  fighting-cock  where  art  has  a  right  to 
luxuriate  in  silken  exuberance.  How  this  city-bred  and  city- 
dressed  girl  came  to  be  in  Rockland  Mr.  Bernard  did  not 
know,  but  he  knew  at  any  rate  that  she  was  his  next  neigh 
bor  and  entitled  to  his  courtesies.  She  was  handsome,  too, 
when  he  came  to  look,  very  handsome  when  he  came  to  look 
again, — endowed  with  that  city  beauty  which  is  like  the 
beauty  of  wall-fruit,  something  finer  in  certain  respects  than 
can  be  reared  off  the  pavement. 

The  miserable  routinists  who  keep  repeating  invidiously 
Cowper's 

"  God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town," 

as  if  the  town  were  a  place  to  kill  out  the  race  in,  do  not 
know  what  they  are  talking  about.  Where  could  they  raise 
such  Saint-Michael  pears,  such  Saint-Germains,  such  Brown 
Burres,  as  we  had  until  within  a  few  years  growing  within 
the  walls  of  our  old  city-gardens?  Is  the  dark  and  damp 
cavern  where  a  ragged  beggar  hides  himself  better  than  a 
town-mansion  which  fronts  the  sunshine  and  backs  on  its 
own  cool  shadow,  with  gas  and  water  and  all  appliances  to 
suit  all  needs?  God  made  the  cavern  and  man  made  the 
house!  What  then? 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  pavement  keeps  a  deal  of  mis 
chief  from  coming  up  out  of  the  earth,  and,  with  a  dash  off 
of  it  in  summer,  just  to  cool  the  soles  of  the  feet  when  it 
gets  too  hot,  is  the  best  place  for  many  constitutions,  as  some 
few  practical  people  have  already  discovered.  And  just  so 
these  beauties  that  grow  and  ripen  against  the  city-walls, 
these  young  fellows  with  cheeks  like  peaches  and  young  girls 
with  cheeks  like  nectarines,  show  that  the  most  perfect  forms 
of  artificial  life  can  do  as  much  for  the  human  product  as 
garden-culture  for  strawberries  and  blackberries. 

If  Mr.  Bernard  had  philosophized  or  prosed  in  this  way, 
with  so  pretty,  nay,  so  lovely  a  neighbor  as  Miss  Letty  For 
rester  waiting  for  him  to  speak  to  her,  he  would  have  to  be 


THE   WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PAKTY.       225 

dropped  from  this  narrative  as  a  person  unworthy  of  his 
good  fortune,  and  not  deserving  the  kind  reader's  further 
notice.  On  the  contrary,  he  no  sooner  set  his  eyes  fairly  on 
her  than  he  said  to  himself  that  she  was  charming,  and  that 
he  wished  she  were  one  of  his  scholars  at  the  Institute.  So 
he  began  talking  with  her  in  an  easy  way ;  for  he  knew  some 
thing  of  young  girls  by  this  time,  and,  of  course,  could  adapt 
himself  to  a  young  lady  who  looked  as  if  she  might  be  not 
more  than  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old,  and  therefore  could 
hardly  be  a  match  in  intellectual  resources  for  the  seventeen 
and  eighteen  year-old  first-class  scholars  of  the  Apollinean 
Institute.  But  city-wall-fruit  ripens  early,  and  he  soon 
found  that  this  girl's  training  had  so  sharpened  her  wits 
and  stored  her  memory,  that  he  need  not  be  at  the  trouble 
to  stoop  painfully  in  order  to  come  down  to  her  level. 

The  beauty  of  good-breeding  is  that  it  adjusts  itself  to  all 
relations  without  effort,  true  to  itself  always,  however  the  ! 
manners  of  those  around  it  may  change.  Self-respect  and 
respect  for  others, — the  sensitive  consciousness  poises  itself 
in  these  as  the  compass  in  the  ship's  binnacle  balances  itself 
and  maintains  its  true  level  within  the  two  concentric  rings 
which  suspend  it  on  their  pivots.  This  thorough-bred 
schoolgirl  quite  enchanted  Mr.  Bernard.  He  could  not  un 
derstand  where  she  got  her  style,  her  way  of  dress,  her  enun 
ciation,  her  easy  manners.  The  minister  was  a  most  worthy 
gentleman,  but  this  was  not  the  Rockland  native-born  man 
ner  ;  some  new  element  had  come  in  between  the  good,  plain, 
worthy  man  and  this  young  girl,  fit  to  be  a  Crown  Prince's 
partner  where  there  were  a  thousand  to  choose  from. 

He  looked  across  to  Helen  Darley,  for  he  knew  she  would 
understand  the  glance  of  admiration  with  which  he  called 
her  attention  to  the  young  beauty  at  his  side;  and  Helen 
knew  what  a  young  girl  could  be,  as  compared  with  what  too 
many  a  one  is,  as  well  as  anybody. 

This  poor,  dear  Helen  of  ours!  How  admirable  the  con 
trast  between  her  and  the  Widow  on  the  other  side  of  Dudley 
Venner !  But,  what  was  very  odd,  that  gentleman  apparently 
thought  the  contrast  was  to  the  advantage  of  this  poor,  dear 
Helen.  At  any  rate,  instead  of  devoting  himself  solely  to 
the  Widow,  he  happened  to  be  just  at  that  moment  talking 
in  a  very  interested  and,  apparently,  not  uninteresting  way 
to  his  right-hand  neighbor,  who,  on  her  part,  never  looked 


226  ELSIE   VENNER. 

more  charmingly, — as  Mr.  Bernard  could  not  help  saying  to 
himself, — but,  to  be  sure,  he  had  just  been  looking  at  the 
young  girl  next  him,  so  that  his  eyes  were  brimful  of  beauty, 
and  may  have  spilled  some  of  it  on  the  first  comer :  for  you 
know  M.  Becquerel  has  been  showing  us  lately  how  every 
thing  is  phosphorescent ;  that  it  soaks  itself  with  light  in  an 
instant's  exposure,  so  that  it  is  wet  with  liquid  sunbeams,  or, 
if  you  will,  tremulous  with  luminous  vibrations,  when  first 
plunged  into  the  negative  bath  of  darkness,  and  betrays  it 
self  by  the  light  which  escapes  from  its  surface. 

Whatever  were  the  reason,  this  poor,  dear  Helen  never 
looked  so  sweetly.  Her  plainly  parted  brown  hair,  her  meek, 
blue  eyes,  her  cheek  just  a  little  tinged  with  color,  the  almost 
sad  simplicity  of  her  dress,  and  that  look  he  knew  so  well, — 
so  full  of  cheerful  patience,  so  sincere,  that  he  had  trusted 
her  from  the  first  moment  as  the  believers  of  the  larger  half 
of  Christendom  trust  the  Blessed  Virgin, — Mr.  Bernard  took 
this  all  in  at  a  glance,  and  felt  as  pleased  as  if  it  had  been 
his  own  .sister  Dorothea  Elizabeth  that  he  was  looking  at. 
As  for  Dudley  Venner,  Mr.  Bernard  could  not  help  being 
struck  by  the  animated  expression  of  his  countenance.  It 
certainly  showed  great  kindness,  on  his  part,  to  pay  so  much 
attention  to  this  quiet  girl,  when  he  had  the  thunder-and- 
lightning  Widow  on  the  other  side  of  him. 

Mrs.  Marilla  Rowens  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
She  had  made  her  tea-party  expressly  for  Mr.  Dudley  Ven 
ner.  She  had  placed  him  just  as  she  wanted,  between  herself 
and  a  meek,  delicate  woman  who  dressed  in  gray,  wore  a 
plain  breastpin  with  hair  in  it,  who  taught  a  pack  of  girls 
up  there  at  the  school,  and  looked  as  if  she  were  born  for  a 
teacher, — the  very  best  foil  that  she  could  have  chosen;  and 
here  was  this  man,  polite  enough  to  herself,  to  be  sure,  but 
turning  round  to  that  very  undistinguished  young  person, 
as  if  he  rather  preferred  her  conversation  of  the  two ! 

The  truth  was  that  Dudley  Venner  and  Helen  Darley  met 
as  two  travelers  might  meet  in  the  desert,  wearied,  both  of 
them,  with  their  long  journey,  one  having  food,  but  no 
water,  the  other  water,  but  no-  food.  Each  saw  that  the 
other  had  been  in  long  conflict  with  some  trial;  for  their 
voices  were  low  and  tender,  as  patiently  borne  sorrow  and 
humbly  uttered  prayers  make  every  human  voice.  Through 
these  tones,  more  than  by  what  they  said,  they  came  into 


THE    WIDOW    EOWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PARTY.       227 

natural  sympathetic  relations  with  each  other.  Nothing, 
could  be  more  unstudied.  As  for  Dudley  Venner,  no  beauty  ; 
in  all  the  world  could  have  so  soothed  and  magnetized  him 
as  the  very  repose  and  subdued  gentleness  which  the  Widow 
had  thought  would  make  the  best  possible  background  for  her  < 
own  more  salient  and  effective  attractions.  No  doubt,  Helen, 
on  her  side,  was  almost  too  readily  pleased  with  the  confi 
dence  this  new  acquaintance  she  was  making  seemed  to  show 
her  from  the  very  first.  She  knew  so  few  men  of  any  con 
dition.  Mr.  Silas  Peckham:  he  was  her  employer,  and  she 
ought  to  think  of  him  as  well  as  she  could;  but  every  time 
she  thought  of  him  it  was  with  a  shiver  of  disgust.  Mr. 
Bernard  Langdon :  a  noble  young  man,  a  true  friend,  like  a 
brother  to  her, — God  bless  him,  and  send  him  some  young 
heart  as  fresh  as  his  own!  But  this  gentleman  produced  a 
new  impression  upon  her,  quite  different  from  any  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  His  rich,  low  tones  had  the  strangest 
significance  to  her;  she  felt  sure  he  must  have  lived  through 
long  experiences,  sorrowful  like  her  own.  Elsie's  father! 
She  looked  into  his  dark  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  him,  to  see 
if  they  had  any  glimmer  of  that  peculiar  light,  diamond- 
bright,  but  cold  and  still,  which  she  knew  so  well  in  Elsie's. 
Anything  but  that!  Never  was  there  more  tenderness,  it 
seemed  to  her,  than  in  the  whole  look  and  expression  of 
Elsie's  father.  She  must  have  been  a  great  trial  to  him ;  yet 
his  face  was  that  of  one  who  had  been  saddened,  not  soured, 
by  his  discipline.  Knowing  what  Elsie  must  be  to  him,  how 
hard  she  must  make  any  parent's  life,  Helen  could  not  but  be 
struck  with  the  interest  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  showed  in  her 
as  his  daughter's  instructress.  He  was  too  kind  to  her; 
again  and  again  she  meekly  turned  from  him,  so  as  to  leave 
him  free  to  talk  to  the  showy  lady  at  his  other  side,  who  was 
looking  all  the  while 

"like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  realms  and  starry  skies," 

but  still  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  after  a  few  courteous  words, 
came  back  to  the  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair;  still  he  kept 
his  look  fixed  upon  her,  and  his  tones  grew  sweeter  and  lower 
as  he  became  more  interested  in  talk,  until  this  poor,  dear 
Helen,  what  with  surprise,  and  the  bashfulness  natural  to 
one  who  had  seen  little  of  the  gay  world,  and  the  stirring  of 


228  ELSIE    VENNER. 

deep,  confused  sympathies  with  this  suffering  father,  whose 
heart  seemed  so  full  of  kindness,  felt  her  cheeks  glowing  with 
unwonted  flame,  and  betrayed  the  pleasing  trouble  of  her 
situation  by  looking  so  sweetly  as  to  arrest  Mr.  Bernard's 
eye  for  a  moment,  when  he  looked  away  from  the  young 
beauty  sitting  next  to  him. 

Elsie  meantime  had  been  silent,  with  that  singular,  still, 
watchful  look  \vhich  those  who  knew  her  well  had  learned  to 
fear.  Her  head  just  a  little  inclined  on  one  side,  perfectly 
motionless  for  whole  minutes,  her  eyes  seeming  to  grow  small 
and  bright,  as  always  when  she  was  under  her  evil  influence, 
she  was  looking  obliquely  at  the  young  girl  on  the  other  side 
of  her  cousin  Dick  and  next  to  Bernard  Langdon.  As  for 
Dick  himself,  she  seemed  to  be  paying  very  little  attention 
to  him.  Sometimes  her  eyes  would  wander  off  to  Mr.  Ber 
nard,  and  their  expression,  as  old  Dr.  Kittredge,  who  watched 
her  for  a  while  pretty  keenly,  noticed,  would  change  per 
ceptibly.  One  would  have  said  that  she  looked  with  a  kind 
of  dull  hatred  at  the  girl,  but  with  a  half-relenting  reproach 
ful  anger  at  Mr.  Bernard. 

Miss  Letty  Forrester,  at  whom  Elsie  had  been  looking 
from  time  to  time  in  this  fixed  way,  was  conscious  mean 
while  of  some  unusual  influence.  First  it  was  a  feeling  of 
constraint, — then,  as  it  were,  a  diminished  power  over  the 
muscles,  as  if  an  invisible  elastic  cobweb  were  spinning 
around  her, — then  a  tendency  to  turn  away  from  Mr.  Ber 
nard,  who  was  making  himself  very  agreeable,  and  look 
straight  into  those  eyes  which  would  not  leave  her,  and  which 
seemed  to  be  drawing  her  towards  them,  while  at  the  same 
time  they  chilled  the  blood  in  all  her  veins. 

Mr.  Bernard  saw  this  influence  coming  over  her.  All  at 
onec  he  noticed  that  she  sighed,  and  that  some  little  points 
of  moisture  began  to  glisten  on  her  forehead.  But  she  did 
not  grow  pale  perceptibly ;  she  had  no  involuntary  or  hysteric 
movements;  she  still  listened  to  him  and  smiled  naturally 
enough.  Perhaps  she  was  only  nervous  at  being  stared  at. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  coming  under  some  unpleasant  influ 
ence  or  other,  and  Mr.  Bernard  had  seen  enough  of  the 
strange  impression  Elsie  sometimes  produced  to  wish  this 
young  girl  to  be  relieved  from  it,  whatever  it  was.  He 
turned  toward  Elsie  and  looked  at  her  in  such  a  way  as  to 
draw  her  eyes  upon  him.  Then  he  looked  steadily  and 


THE   WIDOW    ROWENS    GIVES    A   TEA-PARTY.       229 

calmly  into  them.  It  was  a  great  effort,  for  some  perfectly 
inexplicable  reason.  At  one  instant  he  thought  he  could  not 
sit  where  he  was ;  he  must  go  and  speak  to  Elsie.  Then  he 
wanted  to  take  his  eyes  away  from  hers;  there  was  some 
thing  intolerable  in  the  light  that  came  from  them.  But  he 
was  determined  to  look  her  down,  and  he  believed  he  could 
do  it,  for  he  had  seen  her  countenance  change  more  than 
once  when  he  had  caught  her  gaze  steadily  fixed  on  him.  All 
this  time  took  not  minutes,  but  seconds.  Presently  she 
changed  color  slightly, — 'lifted  her  head,  which  was  inclined 
a  little  to  one  side, — shut  and  opened  her  eyes  two  or  three 
times,  as  if  they  had  been  pained  or  wearied, — and  turned 
away  baffled,  and  shamed,  as  it  would  seem,  and  shorn  for; 
the  time  of  her  singular  and  formidable  or  at  least  evil- 
natured  power  of  swaying  the  impulses  of  those  around  her. 

It  takes  too  long  to  describe  these  scenes  where  a  good 

deal  of  life  is  concentrated  into  a  few  silent  seconds.  Mr. 
Richard  Venner  had  sat  quietly  through  it  all,  although  this 
short  pantomime  had  taken  place  literally  before  his  face. 
He  saw  what  was  going  on  well  enough,  and  understood  it 
all  perfectly  well.  Of  course  the  schoolmaster  had  been 
trying  to  make  Elsie  jealous,  and  had  succeeded.  The  little 
schoolgirl  was  a  decoy-duck, — that  was  all.  Estates  like  the 
Dudley  property  were  not  to  be  had  every  day,  and  no  doubt 
the  Yankee  usher  was  willing  to  take  some  pains  to  make 
sure  of  Elsie.  Doesn't  Elsie  look  savage?  Dick  involun 
tarily  moved  his  chair  a  little  away  from  her,  and  thought 
he  felt  a  pricking  in  the  small  white  scars  on  his  wrist.  A 
dare-devil  fellow,  but  somehow  or  other  this  girl  had  taken 
strange  hold  of  his  imagination,  and  he  often  swore  to  him 
self,  that,  when  he  married  her,  he  would  carry  a  loaded 
revolver  with  him  to  his  bridal  chamber. 

Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer  raged  inwardly  at  first  to  find  her 
self  between  the  two  old  gentlemen  of  the  party.  It  very 
soon  gave  her  great  comfort,  however,  to  see  that  Marilla 
Rowens  had  just  missed  it  in  her  calculations,  and  she 
chuckled  immensely  to  find  Dudley  Yenner  devoting  himself 
chiefly  to  Helen  Darley.  If  the  Rowens  woman  should  hook 
Dudley,  she  felt  as  if  she  should  gnaw  all  her  nails  off  for 
spite.  To  think  of  seeing  her  barouching  about  Rockland  be 
hind  a  pair  of  long-tailed  bays  and  a  coachman  with  a  band 
on  his  hat,  while  she,  Blanche  Creamer,  was  driving  herself 


230  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

about  in  a  one-horse  "  carriage  " !  Recovering  her  spirits  by 
degrees,  she  began  playing  her  surfaces  off  at  the  two  old 
Doctors,  just  by  way  of  practice.  First  she  heaved  up  a 
glaring  white  shoulder,  the  right  one,  so  that  the  Reverend 
Doctor  should  be  stunned  by  it,  if  such  a  thing  might  be. 
The  Reverend  Doctor  was  human,  as  the  Apostle  was  not 
ashamed  to  confess  himself.  Half-devoutly  and  half-mis- 
chievously  he  repeated  inwardly,  "Resist  the  Devil  and  he 
will  nee  from  you."  As  the  Reverend  Doctor  did  not  show 
any  lively  susceptibility,  she  though  she  would  try  the  left 
shoulder  on  old  Doctor  Kittredge.  That  worthy  and  experi 
enced  student  of  science  was  not  at  all  displeased  with  the 
maneuver,  and  lifted  his  head  so  as  to  command  the  ex 
hibition  through  his  glasses.  "  Blanche  is  good  for  half  a 
dozen  years  or  so,  if  she  is  careful,"  the  Doctor  said  to  him 
self,  "  and  then  she  must  take  to  her  prayer  book."  After 
this  spasmodic  failure  of  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer's  to  stir  up 
the  old  Doctors,  she  returned  again  to  the  pleasing  task  of 
watching  the  Widow  in  her  evident  discomfiture.  But  dark 
as  the  Widow  looked  in  her  half -concealed  pet,  she  was  but 
as  a  pale  shadow,  compared  to  Elsie  in  her  silent  concentra 
tion  of  shame  and  anger. 

"  Well,  there  is  one  good  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Blanche  Crea 
mer  ;  "  Dick  doesn't  get  much  out  of  that  cousin  of  his  this 
evening !  Doesn't  he  look  handsome,  though  ?  " 

So  Mrs.  Blanche,  being  now  a  good  deal  taken  up  with 
her  observations  of  those  friends  of  hers  and  ours,  began  to 
be  rather  careless  of  her  two  old  Doctors,  who  naturally 
enough  fell  into  conversaton  with  each  other  across  the  white 
surfaces  of  that  lady, — perhaps  not  very  politely,  but,  under 
the  circumstances,  almost  as  a  matter  of  necessity. 

When  a  minister  and  a  doctor  get  talking  together,  they 
always  have  a  great  deal  to  say ;  and  so  it  happened  that  the 
company  left  the  table  just  as  the  two  Doctors  were  begin 
ning  to  get  at  each  other's  ideas  about  various  interesting 
matters.  If  we  follow  them  into  the  other  parlor,  we  can, 
perhaps,  pick  up  something  of  their  conversation. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER. 

The  company  rearranged  itself  with  some  changes  after 
leaving  the  tea-table.  Dudley  Venner  was  very  polite  to  the 
Widow;  but  that  lady  having  been  called  off  for  a  few  mo 
ments  for  some  domestic  arrangement,  he  slid  back  to  the 
side  of  Helen  Darley,  his  daughter's  faithful  teacher.  Elsie 
had  got  away  by  herself,  and  was  taken  up  in  studying  the 
stereoscopic  Laocoon.  Dick,  being  thus  set  free,  had  been 
seized  upon  by  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  who  had  diffused  her 
self  over  three-quarters  of  a  sofa,  and  beckoned  him  to  the 
remaining  fourth.  Mr.  Bernard  and  Miss  Letty  were  having 
a  snug  tete-a-tete  in  the  recess  of  the  bay  window.  The  two 
Doctors  had  taken  two  arm-chairs  and  sat  squared  off  against 
each  other.  Their  conversation  is  perhaps  as  well  worth  re 
porting  as  that  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  and,  as  it  was 
carried  on  in  a  louder  tone,  was  of  course  more  easy  to 
gather  and  put  on  record. 

It  was  a  curious  sight  enough  to  see  those  two  representa 
tives  of  two  great  professions  brought  face  to  face  to  talk 
over  the  subjects  they  had  been  looking  at  all  their  lives  from 
such  different  points  of  view.  Both  were  old;  old  enough  to 
have  been  molded  by  their  habits  of  thought  and  life;  old 
enough  to  have  all  their  beliefs  "fretted  in"  as  vintners  say, — 
thoroughly  worked  up  with  their  characters.  TEach  of  them 
looked  his  calling.  The  Reverend  Doctor  had  lived  a  good 
deal  among  books  in  his  study ;  the  Doctor,  as  we  will  call  the 
medical  gentleman,  had  been  riding  about  the  country  f -r 
between  thirty  and  forty  years.  His  face  looked  tough  and 
weather-worn;  while  the  Reverend  Doctor's,  hearty  as  it  ap 
peared,  was  of  finer  texture.  The  Doctor's  was  the  graver  of 
the  two;  there  was  something  of  grimness  about  it, — partly 
owing  to  the  northeasters  he  had  faced  for  so  many  years, 
partly  to  long  companionship  with  that  stern  personage  who 
never  deals  in  sentiment  or  pleasantry.  His  speech  was  apt  to 
be  brief  and  peremptory ;  it  was  a  way  he  had  got  by  ordering 

831 


ELSIE   VENKER. 

patients;  but  he  could  discourse  somewhat,  on  occasion,  as 
the  reader  may  find  out.  The  Eeverend  Doctor  had  an  open, 
smiling  expression,  a  cheery  voice,  a  hearty  laugh,  and  a 
cordial  way  with  him  which  some  thought  too  lively  for  his 
cloth,  but  which  children,  who  are  good  judges  of  such  mat 
ters,  delighted  in,  so  that  he  was  the  favorite  of  all  the  little 
rogues  about  town.  But  he  had  the  clerical  art  of  sobering 
down  in  a  moment  when  asked  to  say  grace  while  somebody 
was  in  the  middle  of  some  particularly  funny  story;  and 
though  his  voice  was  so  cheery  in  common  talk,  in  the  pulpit, 
like  almost  all  preachers,  he  had  a  wholly  different  and  pecu 
liar  way  of  speaking,  supposed  to  be  more  acceptable  to  the 
Creator  than  the  natural  manner.  In  point  of  fact,  most  of 
our  anti-papal  and  anti-prelatical  clergymen  do  really  intone 
their  prayers,  without  suspecting  in  the  least  that  they  have 
fallen  into  such  a  Romish  practice. 

This  is  the  way  the  conversation  between  the  Doctor  of 
Divinity  and  the  Doctor  of  Medicine  was  going  on  at  the 
point  where  these  notes  take  it  up: 

"  '  TJbi  tres  medici,  duo  athei,'  you  know,  Doctor.  Your  pro 
fession  has  always  had  the  credit  of  being  lax  in  doctrine,  — 
though  pretty  stringent  in  practice,  ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Some  priest  said  that,"  the  Doctor  answered  dryly. 
"  They  always  talked  Latin  when  they  had  a  bigger  lie  than 
common  to  get  rid  of." 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  Reverend  Doctor  ;  "  I'm  afraid  they 
would  lie  a  little  sometimes.  But  isn't  there  some  truth  in  it, 
Doctor?  Don't  you  think  your  profession  is  apt  to  see 
'  Nature  '  in  the  place  of  the  God  of  Nature,  —  to  lose  sight 
of  the  great  First  Cause  in  their  daily  study  of  secondary 


causes 


" 


"  I've  thought  about  that,"  the  Doctor  answered,  "  and  I've 
talked  about  it,  and  read  about  it,  and  I've  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  nobody  believes  in  God  and  trusts  in  God  quite 
so  much  as  the  doctors;  only  it  isn't  just  the  sort  of  Deity 
that  some  of  your  profession  have  wanted  them  to  take  up 
with.  There  was  a  student  of  mine  wrote  a  dissertation  on 
the  Natural  Theology  of  Health  and  Disease,  and  took  that 
old  lying  proverb  for  his  motto.  He  knew  a  good 
deal  more  about  books  than  ever  I  did,  and  had  studied  in 
many  countries.  I'll  tell  you  what  he  said  about  it.  He 


WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER.  233 

said  the  old  Heathen  Doctor,  Galen,  praised  God  for  his 
handiwork  in  the  human  body,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a 
Christian,  or  the  Psalmist  himself.  He  said  they  had  this 
sentence  set  up  in  large  letters  in  the  great  lecutre-room  in 
Paris,  where  he  attended:  'I  dressed  his  wound  and  God 
healed  him.'  That  was  an  old  surgeon's  saying.  And  he 
gave  a  long  list  of  doctors,  who  were  not  only  Christians,  but 
famous  ones.  I  grant  you,  though,  ministers  and  doctors  are 
very  apt  to  see  differently  in  spiritual  matters." 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  Reverend  Doctor ;  "  you  are  apt  to 
see  l  Nature '  where  we  see  God,  and  appeal  to  i  Science " 
where  we  are  contented  with  Revelation." 

"  We  don't  separate  God  and  Nature,  perhaps,  as  you  do," 
the  Doctor  answered.  "  When  we  say  that  God  is  omnipres 
ent  and  omnipotent  and  omniscient,  we  are  a  little  more  apt 
to  mean  it  than  you  folks  are.  We  think,  when  a  wound 
heals,  that  God's  presence  and  power  and  knowledge  are 
there,  healing  it,  just  as  that  old  surgeon  did.  We  think  a 
good  many  theologians,  working  among  their  books,  don't 
see  the  facts  of  the  world  they  live  in.  When  we  tell  'em  of 
these  facts,  they  are  apt  to  call  us  materialists  and  atheists 
and  infidels,  and  all  that.  We  can't  help  seeing  the  facts, 
and  we  don't  think  it's  wicked  to  mention  'em." 

"  Do  tell  me,"  the  Reverend  Doctor  said,  "  some  of  these 
facts  we  are  in  the  habit  of  overlooking,  and  which  your  pro 
fession  thinks  it  can  see  and  understand." 

"  That's  very  easy,"  the  Doctor  replied.  "  For  instance :  you 
don't  understand  or  don't  allow  for  idiosyncrasies  as  we  learn 
to.  We  know  that  food  and  physic  act  differently  with  dif 
ferent  people ;  but  you  think  the  same  kind  of  truth  is  going 
to  suit,  or  ought  to  suit,  all  minds.  We  don't  fight  with  a 
patient  because  he  can't  take  magnesia  or  opium;  but  you 
are  all  the  time  quarreling  over  your  beliefs,  as  if  belief  did 
not  depend  very  much  on  race  and  constitution,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  early  training." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  every  man  is  not  absolutely! 
free  to  choose  his  beliefs  ? " 

"  The  men  you  write  about  in  your  studies  are,  but  not  the 
men  we  see  in  the  real  world.  There  is  some  apparently  con 
genital  defect  in  the  Indians,  for  instance,  that  keeps  them 
from  choosing  civilization  and  Christianity.  So  with  the 
Gypsies,  very  likely.  Everybody  knows  that  Catholicism  or 


i 


234  ELSIE    VENNEB. 

Protestantism  is  a  good  deal  a  matter  of  race.  Constitution 
has  more  to  do  with  belief  than  people  think  for.  I  went  to 
a  Universalist  church,  when  I  was  in  the  city  one  day,  to 
hear  a  famous  man  whom  all  the  world  knows,  and  I  never 
saw  such  pews-full  of  broad  shoulders  and  florid  faces,  and 
substantial,  wholesome-looking  persons,  male  and  female,  in 
all  my  life.  Why,  it  was  astonishing.  Either  their  creed 
made  them  healthy,  or  they  chose  it  because  they  were 
healthy.  Your  folks  have  never  got  the  hang  of  human 
nature." 

"  I  am  afraid  this  would  be  considered  a  degrading  and 
dangerous  view  of  human  beliefs  and  responsibility  for 
them,"  the  Reverend  Doctor  replied.  "  Prove  to  a  man  that 
his  will  is  governed  by  something  outside  of  himself,  and 
you  have  lost  all  hold  on  his  moral  and  religious  nature. 
There  is  nothing  bad  men  want  to  believe  so  much  as  that 
they  are  governed  by  necessity.  Now  that  which  is  at  once 
degrading  and  dangerous  cannot  be  true." 

"  No  doubt,''  the  Doctor  replied,  "  all  large  views  of  man 
kind  limit  our  estimate  of  the  absolute  freedom  of  the  will. 
But  I  don't  think  it  degrades  or  endangers  us,  for  this  rea 
son,  that,  while  it  makes  us  charitable  to  the  rest  of  mankind, 
our  own  sense  of  freedom,  whatever  it  is,  is  never  affected  by 
argument.  Conscience  won't  be  reasoned  with.  We  feel  that 
we  can  practically  do  this  or  that,  and  if  we  choose  the  wrong, 
we  know  we  are  responsible ;  but  observation  teaches  us,  that 
this  or  that  other  race  or  individual  has  not  the  same  practical 
freedom  of  choice.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  avoid  this  con 
clusion  in  the  instance  of  the  American  Indians.  The  science 
of  Ethnology  has  upset  a  good  many  theoretical  notions  about 
human  nature." 

"  Science !  "  said  the  Reverend  Doctor,  "  science !  that  was 
a  word  the  Apostle  Paul  did  not  seem  to  think  much  of,  if 
we  may  judge  by  the  Epistle  to  Timothy :  i  Oppositions  to 
science  falsely  so  called.'  I  own  that  I  am  jealous  of  that 
word  and  the  pretensions  that  go  with  it.  Science  has  seemed 
to  me  to  be  very  often  only  the  handmaid  of  skepticism." 

"  Doctor,"  the  physician  said,  emphatically,  "  science  is 
knowledge.  Nothing  that  is  not  known  properly  belongs  to 
science.  Whenever  knowledge  obliges  us  to  doubt,  we  are  al 
ways  safe  in  doubting.  Astronomers  foretell  eclipses,  say 
how  long  comets  are  to  stay  with  us,  point  out  where  a  new 


WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER.  235 

planet  is  to  be  found.  We  see  they  know  what  they  assert, 
and  the  poor  old  Roman  Catholic  Church  has  at  last  to 
knock  under.  So  Geology  proves  a  certain  succession  of 
events,  and  the  best  Christian  in  the  world  must  make  the 
earth's  history  square  with  it.  Besides,  I  don't  think  you 
remember  what  great  revelations  of  himself  the  Creator  has 
made  in  the  minds  of  the  men  who  have  built  up  science. 
You  seem  to  me  to  hold  his  human  masterpieces  very  cheap. 
Don't  you  think  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  gave  Newton 
and  Cuvier  i  understanding '  ?  " 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  not  arguing  for  victory.  In 
fact,  what  he  wanted  was  to  call  out  the  opinions  of  the  old 
physician  by  a  show  of  opposition,  being  already  predisposed 
to  agree  with  many  of  them.  He  was  rather  trying  the  com 
mon  arguments,  as  one  tries  tricks  of  fence  merely  to  learn 
the  way  of  parrying.  But  just  here  he  saw  a  tempting  open 
ing,  and  could  not  resist  giving  a  home-thrust. 

"  Yes ;  but  you  surely  would  not  consider  it  inspiration  of 
the  same  kind  as  that  of  the  writers  of  the  Old  Testa 
ment?" 

That  cornered  the  Doctor,  and  he  paused  a  moment  before 
he  replied.  Then  he  raised  his  head  so  as  to  command  the 
Reverend  Doctor's  face  through  his  spectacles,  and  said, — 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  You  are  clear,  I  suppose,  that  the 
Omniscient  spoke  through  Solomon,  but  that  Shakspere 
wrote  without  his  help  ? " 

The  Reverend  Doctor  looked  very  grave.  It  was  a  bold, 
blunt  way  of  putting  the  question.  He  turned  it  aside  with 
the  remark,  that  Shakspere  seemed  to  him  at  times  to  come 
as  near  inspiration  as  any  human  being  not  included  among 
the  sacred  writers. 

"  Doctor,"  the  physician  began,  as  from  a  sudden  sugges 
tion,  "you  won't  quarrel  with  me,  if  I  tell  you  some  of  my 
real  thoughts,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Say  on,  my  dear  sir,  say  on,"  the  minister  answered,  with 
his  most  genial  smile;  "your  real  thoughts  are  just  what  I 
want  to  get  at.  A  man's  real  thoughts  are  a  great  rarity.  If 
I  don't  agree  with  you,  I  should  like  to  hear  you." 

The  Doctor  began ;  and,  in  order  to  give  his  thoughts  more 
connectedly,  we  will  omit  the  conversational  breaks,  the  ques 
tions  and  comments  of  the  clergyman,  and  all  accidental  in 
terruptions. 


236  ELSIE   VENKEK. 

"When  the  old  ecclesiastics  said  that  where  there  were 
three  doctors  there  were  two  atheists,  they  lied,  of  course. 
They  called  everybody  who  differed  from  them  atheists,  until 
they  found  out  that  not  believing  in  God  wasn't  nearly  so 
ugly  a  crime  as  not  believing  in  some  particular  dogma; 
then  they  called  them  heretics,  until  so  many  good  people 
had  been  burned  under  that  name  that  it  began  to  smell  too 
strong  of  roasting  flesh — and  after  that  infidels,  which  prop 
erly  means  people  without  faith,  of  whom  there  are  not  a 
great  many  in  any  place  or  time.  But  then,  of  course,  there 
was  some  reason  why  doctors  shouldn't  think  about  religion 
exactly  as  ministers  did,  or  they  never  would  have  made  that 
proverb.  It  is  very  likely  that  something  of  the  same  kind 
is  true  now;  whether  it  is  so  or  not,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
the  reason  why  it  should  not  be  strange,  if  doctors  should  take 
rather  different  views  from  clergymen  about  some  matters  of 
belief.  I  don't,  of  course,  mean  all  doctors  nor  all  clergymen. 
Some  doctors  go  as  far  as  any  old  New  England  divine,  and 
some  clergymen  agree  very  well  with  the  doctors  that  think 
least  according  to  rule 

"  To  begin  with  their  ideas  of  the  Creator  himself.  They 
always  see  him  trying  to  help  his  creatures  out  of  their 
troubles.  A  man  no  sooner  gets  a  cut,  than  the  Great  Phy 
sician,  whose  agency  we  often  call  Nature,  goes  to  work,  first 
to  stop  the  blood,  and  then  to  heal  the  wound,  and  then  to 
make  the  scar  as  small  as  possible.  If  a  man's  pain  exceeds  a 
certain  amount,  he  faints,  and  so  gets  relief.  If  it  lasts  too 
long,  habit  comes  in  to  make  it  tolerable.  If  it  is  altogether 
toe  bad  he  dies.  That  is  the  best  thing  to  be  done  under  the 
circumstances.  So  you  see,  the  doctor  is  constantly  in  the 
presence  of  a  benevolent  agency,  working  against  a  settled 
order  of  things,  of  which  pain  and  disease  are  the  accidents, 
so  to  speak.  Well,  nc  doubt  they  find  it  harder  than  clergy 
men  to  believe  that  there  can  be  any  world  or  state  from 
which  this  benevolent  agency  is  wholly  excluded.  This  may 
be  very  wrong;  but  it  is  not  unnatural.  They  can  hardly 
conceive  of  a  permanent  state  of  being  in  which  cuts  would 
never  try  to  heal,  nor  habit  render  suffering  endurable.  This 
is  one  effect  of  their  training. 

"  Then,  again,  their  attention  is  very  much  called  to  human 
limitations.  Ministers  work  out  the  machinery  of  responsi- 
blity  in  an  abstract  kind  of  way;  they  have  a  sort  of  algebra 


WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER.  237 

of  human  nature,  in  which  friction  and  strength  (or  weak 
ness)  of  material  are  left  out.  You  see,  a  doctor  is  in  the 
way  of  studying  children  from  the  moment  of  birth  upwards. 
For  the  first  year  or  so  he  sees  that  they  are  just  as  much 
pupils  of  their  Maker  as  the  young  of  any  other  animals. 
Well,  their  Maker  trains  them  to  pure  selfishness.  Why  ?  In 
order  that  they  may  be  sure  to  take  care  of  themselves.  So 
you  see,  when  a  child  comes  to  be,  we  will  say  a  year  and  a 
day  old,  and  makes  his  first  choice  between  right  and  wrong, 
he  is  at  a  disadvantage,  for  he  has  that  vis  a  tergo,  as  we  doc 
tors  call  it,  that  force  from  behind,  of  a  whole  year's  life  of 
selfishness,  for  which  he  is  no  more  to  blame  than  a  calf  is 
to  blame  for  having  lived  in  the  same  way,  purely  to  gratify 
his  natural  appetites.  Then  we  see  that  baby  grow  up  to  a 
child,  and,  if  he  is  fat  and  stout  and  red  and  lively,  we  expect 
tc  find  him  troublesome  and  noisy,  and  perhaps  sometimes 
disobedient,  more  or  less;  that  is  the  way  each  new  generation 
breaks  its  egg-shell;  but  if  he  is  very  weak  and  thin,  and  is 
one  of  the  kind  that  may  be  expected  to  die  early,  he  will 
very  likely  sit  in  the  house  all  day  and  read  good  books  about 
other  little  sharp-faced  children  just  like  himself,  who  died 
early,  having  always  been  perfectly  indifferent  to  all  the  out 
door  amusements  of  the  wicked  little  red-cheeked  children. 
Some  of  the  little  folks  we  watch  grow  up  to  be  young  women, 
and  occasionally  one  of  them  gets  nervous,  what  we  call  hys 
terical,  and  then  the  girl  will  begin  to  play  all  sorts  of 
pranks, — to  lie  and  cheat,  perhaps,  in  the  most  unaccountable 
way,  so  that  she  might  seem  to  a  minister  a  good  example  of 
total  depravity.  We  don't  see  her  in  that  light.  We  give  her 
iron  and  valerian,  and  get  her  on  horseback,  if  we  can,  and  , 
so  expect  to  make  her  will  come  all  right  again.  By-and-by 
we  are  called  in  to  see  an  old  baby,  threescore  years  and  ten 
or  more  old.  We  find  this  old  baby  has  never  got  rid  of 
that  first  year's  teaching  which  led  him  to  fill  his  stomach 
with  all  he  could  pump  into  it,  and  his  hands  with  everything 
he  could  grab.  People  call  him  a  miser.  We  are  sorry  for  ' 
him;  but  we  can't  help  remembering  his  first  year's  train 
ing,  and  the  natural  effect  of  money  on  the  great  majority  of 
those  that  have  it.  So  while  the  ministers  say  he  '  shall 
hardly  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,'  we  like  to  remind 
them  that  '  with  God  all  things  are  possible.' 
"  One  more^  we  see  all  kinds  of  monomania  and  insanity,  ' 


238  ELSIE    VENNEE. 

We  learn  from  them  to  recognize  all  sorts  of  queer  tendencies 
ir  minds  supposed  to  be  sane,  so  that  we  have  nothing  but 
compassion  for  a  large  class  of  persons  condemned  as  sin 
ners  by  theologians,  but  considered  by  us  as  invalids.  We 
have  constant  reasons  for  noticing  the  transmission  of  quali 
ties  from  parents  to  offspring,  and  we  find  it  hard  to  hold  a 
child  accountable  in  any  moral  point  of  view  for  inherited 
bad  temper  or  tendency  to  drunkenness, — as  hard  as  we 
should  tc  blame  him  for  inheriting  gout  or  asthma.  I  suppose 
we  are  more  lenient  with  human  nature  than  theologians  gen 
erally  are.  We  know  that  the  spirits  of  men,  and  their  views 
of  the  present  and  the  future,  go  up  and  down  with  the  barom 
eter,  and  that  a  permanent  depression  of  one  inch  in  the 
mercurial  column  would  affect  the  whole  theology  of  Chris 
tendom. 

"  Ministers  talk  about  the  human  will  as  if  it  stood  on  a 
[  high  look-out,  with  plenty  of  light,  and  elbow-room  reaching 
;  to  the  horizon.  Doctors  are  constantly  noticing  how  it  is 
tied  up  and  darkened  by  inferior  organization,  by  disease,  and 
all  sorts  of  crowding  interferences,  until  they  get  to  look 
upon  Hottentots  and  Indians — and  a  good  many  of  their  own 
race — as  a  kind  of  self-conscious  blood-cocks  with  very  lim 
ited  power  of  self-determination.  That's  the  tendency,  I 
say,  of  a  doctor's  experience.  But  the  people  to  whom  they 
address  their  statements  of  the  results  of  their  observation 
belong  to  the  thinking  class  of  the  highest  races,  and  they 
are  conscious  of  a  great  deal  of  liberty  of  will.  So,  in  the 
face  of  the  fact  that  civilization,  with  all  it  offers,  has  proved 
a  dead  failure  with  the  aboriginal  races  of  this  country, — 
on  the  whole,  I  say,  a  dead  failure, — they  talk  as  if  they  knew 
from  their  own  will  all  about  that  of  a  Digger  Indian !  We 
are  more  apt  to  go  by  observation  of  the  facts  in  the  case. 
v  We  are  constantly  seeing  weakness  where  you  see  depravity. 
I  don't  say  we're  right ;  I  only  tell  what  you  must  often  find 
to  be  the  fact,  right  or  wrong,  in  talking  with  doctors.  You 
see,  too,  our  notions  of  bodily  and  moral  disease,  or  sin,  are 
~"  apt  to  go  together.  We  used  to  be  as  hard  on  sickness  as  you 
\_were  on  sin.  We  know  better  now.  We  don't  look  at  sick 
ness  as  we  used  to,  and  try  to  poison  it  with  everything  that 
is  offensive, — burnt  toads  and  earth-worms,  and  viper-broth, 
and  worse  things  than  these.  We  know  that  disease  has 
something  back  of  it  which  the  body  isn't  to  blame  for?  at 


WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER  239 

least  in  most  cases,  and  which  very  often  it  is  trying  to  get 
rid  of.  Just  so  with  sin.  I  will  agree  to  take  a  hundred  new 
born  babes  of  a  certain  stock  and  return  seventy-five  of  them 
in  a  dozen  years  true  and  honest,  if  not  f  pious '  children. 
And  I  will  take  another  hundred  of  a  different  stock,  and 
put  them  in  the  hands  of  certain  .Ann-street  or  Five-Points 
teachers,  and  seventy-five  of  them  will  be  thieves  and  liars 
at  the  end  of  the  same  dozen  years.  I  have  heard  of  an  old 
character,  Colonel  Jaques,  I  believe  it  was,  a  famous  cattle- 
breeder,  who  used  to  say  he  could  breed  to  pretty  much  any 
pattern  he  wanted  to.  Well,  we  doctors  see  so  much  of 
families,  how  the  tricks  of  the  blood  keep  breaking  out,  just 
as  much  in  character  as  they  do  in  looks,  that  we  can't  help 
feeling  as  if  a  great  many  people  hadn't  a  fair  chance  to  be 
what  is  called  '  good,'  and  that  there  isn't  a  text  in  the  Bible 
better  worth  keeping  always  in  mind  than  that  one,  *  Judge 
not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.' 

"  As  for  our  getting  any  quarter  at  the  hands  of  theolo 
gians,  we  don't  expect  it,  and  have  no  right  to.  You  don't  give 
each  other  any  quarter.  I  have  had  two  religious  books  sentme 
by  my  friends  within  a  week  or  two.  One  is  Mr.  Brownson's ; 
he  is  as  fair  and  square  as  Euclid;  a  real  honest,  strong 
thinker,  and  one  that  knows  what  he  is  talking  about, — for 
he  has  tried  all  sorts  of  religions  pretty  much.  He  tells  us 
that  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  is  the  one  '  through  which 
alone  we  can  hope  for  heaven.'  The  other  is  by  a  worthy 
Episcopal  rector,  who  appears  to  write  as  if  he  were  in  ear 
nest,  and  he  calls  the  Papacy  the  ( Devil's  Masterpiece/  and 
talks  about  the  l  Satanic  scheme '  of  that  very  church, 
'  through  which  alone,'  as  Mr.  Brownson  tells  us,  '  we  can 
hope  for  heaven ' !  What's  the  use  in  our  caring  about  hard 
words  after  this, — '  atheists,'  heretics,  infidels,  and  the  like  ? 
They're,  after  all,  only  the  cinders  picked  up  out  of  those 
heaps  of  ashes  round  the  stumps  of  the  old  stakes  where  they 
used  to  burn  men,  women,  and  children  for  not  thinking  just 
like  other  folks.  They'll  f  crock '  your  fingers,  but  they  can't 
burn  us. 

"  Doctors  are  the  best-natured  people  in  the  world,  except 
when  they  get  fighting  with  each  other.  And  they  have  some 
advantages  over  you.  You  inherit  your  notions  from  a  set 
of  priests  that  had  no  wives  and  no  children,  or  none  to  speak 
of,  and  so  let  their  humanity  die  out  of  them.  It  didn't  seem 


240  ELSIE    VENNER. 

much  to  them  to  condemn  a  few  thousand  millions  of  people 
to  purgatory  or  worse  for  a  mistake  of  judgment.  They 
didn't  know  what  it  was  to  have  a  child  look  up  in  their 
faces  and  say  '  Father ! '  It  will  take  you  a  hundred  or  two 
>;more  years  to  get  decently  humanized,  after  so  many  cen- 
|  turies  of  dehumanizing  celibacy. 

"  Besides,  though  our  libraries  are,  perhaps,  not  commonly 
quite  so  big  as  yours,  God  opens  one  book  to  physicians  that 
a  good  many  of  you  don't  know  much  about,— the.  Book  of 
Life.  That  is  not  none  of  your  dusty  folios,  with  black  let 
ters"  "between  pasteboard  and  leather,  but  it  is  printed  in 
bright  red  type,  and  the  binding  of  it  is  warm  and  tender 
to  every  touch.  They  reverence  that  book  as  one  of  the 
Almighty's  infallible  revelations.  They  will  insist  on  read 
ing  you  lessons  out  of  it,  whether  you  call  them  names  or 
not.  These  will  always  be  lessons  of  charity.  No  doubt, 
nothing  can  be  more  provoking  to  listen  to.  But  do  beg  your 
folks  to  remember  that  the  Smithfield  fires  are  all  out,  and 
that  the  cinders  are  very  dirty  and  not  in  the  least  dangerous. 
They'd  a  great  deal  better  be  civil,  and  not  be  throwing  old 
proverbs  in  the  doctors'  faces,  when  they  say  that  the  man 
of  the  old  monkish  notions  is  one  thing  and  the  man  they 
watch  from  his  cradle  to  his  coffin  is  something  very  dif 
ferent." 

It  has  cost  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  work  the  Doctor's  talk 
up  into  this  formal  shape.  Some  of  his  sentences  have  been 
rounded  off  for  him,  and  the  whole  brought  into  a  more 
rhetorical  form  than  it  could  have  pretended  to,  if  taken  as 
it  fell  from  his  lips.  But  the  exact  course  of  his  remarks 
has  been  followed,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  his  expressions  have 
been  retained.  Though  given  in  the  form  of  a  discourse,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  it  was  a  conversation,  much  more 
fragmentary  and  colloquial  than  it  seems  as  just  read. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  very  far  from  taking  offense  at 
the  old  physician's  freedom  of  speech.  He  knew  him  to  be 
honest,  kind,  charitable,  self-denying  whenever  any  sorrow 
was  to  be  alleviated,  always  reverential,  with  a  cheerful  trust 
in  the  great  Father  of  all  mankind.  To  be  sure,  his  senior 
deacon,  old  Deacon  Shearer, — who  seemed  to  have  got  his 
Scripture-teachings  out  of  the  "Vinegar  Bible,"  (the  one 
where  Vineyard  is  misprinted  Vinegar,  which  a  good  many 


WHY    DOCTORS    DIFFER.  241 

people  seem  to  have  adopted  as  the  true  reading), — his  senior 
deacon  had  called  Dr.  Kittredge  an  "  infidel."  But  the  Rev 
erend  Doctor  could  not  help  feeling,  that,  unless  the  text, 
"  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them,"  were  an  interpolation, 
the  Doctor  was  the  better  Christian  of  the  two.  Whatever 
his  senior  deacon  might  think  about  it,  he  said  to  himself  that 
he  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  met  the  Doctor  in  heaven  yet, 
inquiring  anxiously  after  old  Deacon  Shearer. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  expressing  himself  very  frankly  to 
the  Doctor,  with  that  benevolent  smile  on  his  face  which 
had  sometimes  come  near  giving  offense  to  the  readers  of  the 
"  Vinegar "  edition,  but  he  saw  that  the  physician's  atten 
tion  had  been  arrested  by  Elsie.  He  looked  in  the  same  direc 
tion  himself,  and  could  not  help  being  struck  by  her  attitude 
and  expression.  There  was  something  singularly  graceful  in 
the  curves  of  her  neck  and  the  rest  of  her  figure,  but  she  was 
so  perfectly  still,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  hardly  breath 
ing.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  young  girl  with  whom  Mr. 
Bernard  was  talking.  He  had  often  noticed  their  brilliancy, 
but  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  appeared  dull,  and  the 
look  of  her  features  was  as  of  some  passion  which  had  missed 
its  stroke.  Mr.  Bernard's  companion  seemed  unconscious 
that  she  was  the  object  of  this  attention,  and  was  listening  to 
the  young  master  as  if  he  had  succeeded  in  making  himself 
very  agreeable. 

Of  course  Dick  Venner  had  not  mistaken  the  game  that 
was  going  on.  The  schoolmaster  meant  to  make  Elsie  jeal 
ous, — and  he  had  done  it.  That's  it :  get  her  savage  first,  and 
then  come  wheedling  round  her, — a  sure  trick,  if  he  isn't 
headed  off  somehow.  But  Dick  saw  well  enough  that  he  had 
better  let  Elsie  alone  just  now,  and  thought  the  best  way  of 
killing  the  evening  would  be  to  amuse  himself  in  a  little 
lively  talk  with  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  and  incidentally  to 
show  Elsie  that  he  could  make  himself  acceptable  to  other 
women,  if  not  to  herself. 

The  Doctor  presently  went  up  to  Elsie,  determined  to  en 
gage  her  in  conversation  and  get  her  out  of  her  thoughts, 
which  he  saw,  by  her  look,  were  dangerous.  Her  father  had 
been  on  the  point  of  leaving  Helen  Darley  to  go  to  her,  but 
felt  easy  enough  when  he  saw  the  old  Doctor  at  her  side,  and 
so  went  on  talking.  The  Reverend  Doctor,  being  now  left 
alone,  engaged  the  Widow  Rowens,  who  put  the  best  face  on 


242  ELSIE   VENNER. 

her  vexation  she  could,  but  was  devoting  herself  to  all  the 
underground  deities  for  having  been  such  a  fool  as  to  ask 
that  pale-faced  thing  from  the  Institute  to  fill  up  hei  party. 

There  is  no  space  left  to  report  the  rest  of  the  conversation. 
If  there  was  anything  of  any  significance  in  it,  it  will  turn 
up  by-and-by,  nc  doubt.  At  ten  o'clock  the  Reverend  Doctor 
called  Miss  Letty,  who  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late;  Mr.  Ber 
nard  gave  his  arm  to  Helen;  Mr.  Richard  saw  to  Mrs. 
Blanche  Creamer;  the  Doctor  gave  Elsie  a  cautioning  look, 
and  went  off  alone,  thoughtful;  Dudley  Venner  and  his 
daughter  got  into  their  carriage  and  were  whirled  away.  The 
Widow's  gambit  was  played,  and  she  had  not  won  the  game. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE   WILD   HUNTSMAN. 

The  young  master  had  not  forgotten  the  old  Doctor's  cau 
tions.  Without  attributing  any  great  importance  to  the 
warning  he  had  given  him,  Mr.  Bernard  had  so  far  complied 
with  his  advice  that  he  was  becoming  a  pretty  good  shot  with 
the  pistol.  It  was  an  amusement  as  good  as  many  others  to 
practice,  and  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  it  after  the  first  few 


The  popping  of  a  pistol  at  odd  hours  in  the  back-yard  of 
the  Institute  was  a  phenomenon  more  than  sufficiently  re 
markable  to  be  talked  about  in  Rockland.  The  viscous  intel 
ligence  of  a  country  village  is  not  easily  stirred  by  the  winds 
which  ripple  the  fluent  thought  of  great  cities,  but  it  holds 
every  straw  and  entangles  every  insect  that  lights  upon  it. 
It  soon  became  rumored  in  the  town  that  the  young  master 
was  a  wonderful  shot  with  the  pistol.  Some  said  he  could  hit 
a  f'opence-ha'penny  at  three  rod;  some  that  he  had  shot  a 
swallow,  flying,  with  a  single  ball;  some,  that  he  snuffed  a 
candle  five  times  out  of  six  at  ten  paces,  and  that  he  could 
hit  any  button  in  a  man's  coat  he  wanted  to.  In  other  words, 
as  in  all  such  cases,  all  the  common  feats  were  ascribed  to 
him,  as  the  current  jokes  of  the  day  are  laid  at  the  door  of 
any  noted  wit,  however  innocent  he  may  be  of  them. 

In  the  natural  course  of  things,  Mr.  Richard  Venner,  who 
had  by  this  time  made  some  acquaintances,  as  we  have  seen, 
among  that  class  of  the  population  least  likely  to  allow  a  live 
cinder  of  gossip  to  go  out  for  want  of  air,  had  heard  inci 
dentally  that  the  master  up  there  at  the  Institute  was  all  the 
time  practicing  with  a  pistol,  that  they  say  he  can  snuff  a 
candle  at  ten  rods  (that  was  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer's  ver 
sion),  and  that  he  could  hit  anybody  he  wanted  to  right  in 
the  eye,  as  far  as  he  could  see  the  white  of  it. 

Dick  did  not  like  the  sound  of  all  this  any  too  well.  With 
out  believing  more  than  half  of  it,  there  was  enough  to  make 
the  Yankee  schoolmaster  too  unsafe  to  be  trifled  with.  How- 


244  ELSIE    VENNER. 

ever,  shooting  at  a  mark  was  pleasant  work  enough;  he  had 
no  particular  objection  to  it  himself.  Only  he  did  not  care 
so  much  for  those  little  popgun  affairs  that  a  man  carries  in 
his  pocket,  and  with  which  you  couldn't  shoot  a  fellow, — a 
robber,  say, — without  getting  the  muzzle  under  his  nose.  Pis 
tols  for  boys;  long-range  rifles  for  men.  There  was  such  a 
gun  lying  in  the  closet  with  the  fowling  pieces.  He  would 
go  out  into  the  fields  and  see  what  he  could  do  as  a  marks 
man. 

The  nature  of  the  mark  which  Dick  choose  for  experiment 
ing  upon  was  singular.  He  had  found  some  panes  of  glass 
which  had  been  removed  from  an  old  sash,  and  he  placed  these 
successively  before  his  target,  arranging  them  at  different 
angles.  He  found  that  a  bullet  would  go  through  the  glass 
without  glancing  or  having  its  force  materially  abated.  It 
was  an  interesting  fact  in  physics,  and  might  prove  of  some 
practical  significance  hereafter.  Nobody  knows  what  may 
turn  up  to  render  these  out-of-the-way  facts  useful.  All  this 
was  done  in  a  quiet  way  in  one  of  the  bare  spots  high  up  the 
side  of  The  Mountain.  He  was  very  thoughtful  in  taking  the 
precaution  to  get  so  far  away;  rifle  bullets  are  apt  to  glance 
and  come  whizzing  about  people's  ears,  if  they  are  fired  in 
the  neighborhood  of  houses.  Dick  satisfied  himself  that  he 
could  be  tolerably  sure  of  hitting  a  pane  of  glass  at  a  dis 
tance  of  thirty  rods,  more  or  less,  and  that,  if  there  happened 
to  be  anything  behind  it,  the  glass  would  not  materially  alter 
the  force  or  direction  of  the  bullet. 

About  this  time  it  occurred  to  him  also  that  there  was  an  old 
accomplishment  of  his  which  he  would  be  in  danger  of  losing 
for  want  of  practice,  if  he  did  not  take  some  opportunity  to 
try  his  hand  and  regain  its  cunning,  if  it  had  begun  to  be 
diminished  by  disuse.  For  his  first  trial  he  chose  an  evening 
when  the  moon  was  shining,  and  after  the  hour  when  the 
Rockland  people  were  like  to  be  stirring  abroad.  He  was  so 
far  established  now  that  he  could  do  much  as  he  pleased  with 
out  exciting  remark. 

The  prairie  horse  he  rode,  the  mustang  of  the  Pampas, 
wild  as  he  was,  had  been  trained  to  take  part  in  at  least  one 
exercise.  This  was  the  accomplishment  in  which  Mr.  Richard 
now  proposed  to  try  himself.  For  this  purpose  he  sought  the 
implement  of  which,  as  it  may  be  remembered,  he  had  once 
made  an  incidental  use, — the  lasso,  or  long  strip  of  hide  with 


THE   WILD    HUNTSMAN.  245 

a  slip-noose  at  the  end  of  it.  He  had  been  accustomed  to 
playing  with  sucih  a  thong  from  his  boyhood,  and  had  be 
come  expert  in  its  use  in  capturing  wild  cattle  in  the  course 
of  his  adventures.  Unfortunately,  there  were  no  wild  bulls 
likely  to  be  met  with  in  the  neighborhood,  to  become  the  sub 
jects  of  his  skill.  A  stray  cow  in  the  road,  an  ox  or  a  horse 
in  a  pasture,  must  serve  his  turn, — dull  beasts,  but  moving 
marks  to  aim  at,  at  any  rate. 

Never,  since  he  had  galloped  in  the  chase  over  the  Pam 
pas,  had  Dick  Venner  felt  such  a  sense  of  life  and  power  as 
when  he  struck  the  long  spurs  into  his  wild  horse's  flanks, 
and  dashed  along  the  road  with  the  lasso  lying  like  a  coiled 
snake  at  the  saddle-bow.  In  skillful  hands ,  the  silent,  blood 
less  noose,  flying  like  an  arrow,  but  not,  like  that,  leaving  a 
wound  behind  it, — sudden  as  a  pistol-shot,  but  without  the 
tell-tale  explosion, — is  one  of  the  most  fearful  and  mysterious 
weapons  that  arm  the  hand  of  man.  The  old  Romans  knew 
how  formidable,  even  in  contest  with  a  gladiator  equipped 
with  sword,  helmet,  and  shield,  was  the  almost  naked 
retiarius,  with  his  net  in  one  hand  and  his  three-pronged 
javelin  in  the  other.  Once  get  a  net  over  a  man's  head,  or  a 
cord  round  his  neck,  or,  what  is  more  frequently  done  now 
adays,  bonnet  him  by  knocking  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes, 
and  he  is  at  the  mercy  of  his  opponent.  Our  soldiers  who 
served  against  the  Mexicans  found  this  out  too  well.  Many 
a  poor  fellow  has  been  lassoed  by  the  fierce  riders  from  the 
plains,  and  fallen  an  easy  victim  to  the  captor  who  had 
snared  him  in  the  fatal  noose. 

But,  imposing  as  the  sight  of  the  wild  huntsmen  of  the 
Pampas  might  have  been,  Dick  could  not  help  laughing  at 
the  mock  sublimity  of  his  situation,  as  he  tried  his  first  ex 
periment  on  an  unhappy  milky  mother  who  had  strayed  from 
her  herd  and  was  wandering  disconsolately  along  the  road, 
laying  the  dust,  as  she  went,  with  thready  streams  from  her 
swollen,  swinging  udders.  "  Here  goes  the  Don  at  the  wind 
mill  !  "  said  Dick,  and  tilted  full  speed  at  her,  whirling  the 
lasso  round  his  head  as  he  rode.  The  creature  swerved  to  one 
side  of  the  way,  as  the  wild  horse  and  his  rider  came  rushing 
down  upon  her,  and  presently  turned  and  ran,  as  only  cows 

and it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  say  it — can  run.  Just  before 

he  passed, — at  twenty  or  thirty  feet  from  her, — the  lasso  shot 
from  his  hand,  uncoiling  as  it  flew,  and  in  an  instant  its 


246  ELSIE   VENNEE. 

loop  was  round  her  horns.  "  Well  cast ! "  said  Dick,  as  he 
galloped  up  to  her  side  and  dexterously  disengaged  the  lasso. 
"  Now  for  a  horse  on  the  run !  " 

He  had  the  good  luck  to  find  one,  presently,  grazing  in  a 
pasture  at  the  road-side.  Taking  down  the  rails  of  the  fence 
at  one  point,  he  drove  the  horse  into  the  road  and  gave  chase. 
It  was  a  lively  young  animal  enough,  and  was  easily  roused 
to  a  pretty  fast  pace.  As  his  gallop  grew  more  and  more 
rapid,  Dick  gave  the  reins  to  the  mustang,  until  the  two 
horses  stretched  themselves  out  in  their  longest  strides.  If 
the  first  feat  looked  like  play,  the  one  he  was  now  to  attempt 
had  a  good  deal  the  appearance  of  real  work.  He  touched 
the  mustang  with  the  spur,  and  in  a  few  fierce  leaps  found 
himself  nearly  abreast  of  the  frightened  animal  he  was  chas- 

.  ing.  Once  more  he  whirled  the  lasso  round  and  round  over 
his  head,  and  then  shot  it  forth,  as  the  rattlesnake  shoots  his 
head  from  the  loops  against  which  it  rests.  The  noose  was 
round  the  horse's  neck,  and  in  another  instant  was  tightened 
so  as  almost  to  stop  his  breath.  The  prairie  horse  knew  the 
trick  of  the  cord,  and  leaned  away  from  the  captive,  so  as  to 
keep  the  thong  tensely  stretched  between  his  neck  and  the 
peak  of  the  saddle  to  which  it  was  fastened.  Struggling  was 
of  no  use  with  a  halter  round  his  windpipe,  and  he  very  soon 
began  to  tremble  and  stagger, — blind,  no  doubt,  and  with  a 
roaring  in  his  ears  as  of  a  thousand  battle-trumpets, — at  any 

.  rate  subdued  and  helpless.  That  was  enough.  Dick  loosened 
his  lasso,  wound  it  up  again,  laid  it  like  a  pet  snake  in  a  coil 
at  his  saddle-bow,  turned  his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  along 
towards  the  mansion-house. 

The  place  had  never  looked  more  stately  and  beautiful  to 
him  than  as  he  now  saw  it  in  the  moonlight.  The  undula 
tions  of  the  land, — the  grand  mountain-screen  which  sheltered 
the  mansion  from  the  northern  blasts,  rising  with  all  its 
hanging  forests  and  parapets  of  naked  rock  high  towards  the 
heavens, — the  ancient  mansion,  with  its  square  chimneys,  and 
body-guard  of  old  trees,  and  cincture  of  low  walls  with 
marble-pillared  gateways, — the  fields,  with  their  various  cover 
ings, — the  beds  of  flowers, — the  plots  of  turf,  one  with  a  gray 
column  in  its  center  bearing  a  sun-dial  on  which  the  rays 
of  the  moon  were  idly  shining,  another  with  a  white  stone  and 
a  narrow  ridge  of  turf, — over  all  these  objects,  harmonized 
with  all  their  infinite  details  into  one  fair  whole  by  the  moon- 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMAN.  247 

light,  the  prospective  heir,  as  he  deemed  himself,  looked  with 
admiring  eyes. 

But  while  he  looked,  the  thought  rose  up  in  his  mind  like 
waters  from  a  poisoned  fountain,  that  there  was  a  deep  plot 
laid  to  cheat  him  of  the  inheritance  which  by  a  double  claim 
he  meant  to  call  his  own.  Every  day  this  ice-cold  beauty, 
this  dangerous,  handsome  cousin  of  his,  went  up  to  that 
place, — that  usher's  girl-trap.  Every  day, — regularly  now, — 
it  used  to  be  different.  Did  she  go  only  to  get  out  of  his,  her 
cousin's  reach  ?  Was  she  not  rather  becoming  more  and  more 
involved  in  the  toils  of  this  plotting  Yankee? 

If  Mr.  Bernard  had  shown  himself  at  that  moment  a  few 
rods  in  advance,  the  chances  are  that  in  less  than  one  minute 
he  would  have  found  himself  with  a  noose  round  his  neck, 
at  the  heels  of  a  mounted  horseman.  Providence  spared  him 
for  the  present.  Mr.  Richard  rode  his  horse  quietly  round  to 
the  stable,  put  him  up,  and  proceeded  towards  the  house.  He 
got  to  his  bed  without  disturbing  the  family,  but  could  not 
sleep.  The  idea  had  fully  taken  possession  of  his  mind  that 
a  deep  intrigue  was  going  on  which  would  end  by  bringing 
Elsie  and  the  schoolmaster  into  relations  fatal  to  all  his  own 
hopes.  With  that  ingenuity  which  always  accompanies 
jealousy,  he  tortured  every  circumstance  of  the  last  few 
weeks  so  as  to  make  it  square  with  this  belief.  From  this 
vein  of  thought  he  naturally  passed  to  a  consideration  of 
every  possible  method  by  which  the  issue  he  feared  might  be 
avoided. 

Mr.  Richard  talked  very  plain  language  with  himself  in  all 
these  inward  colloquies.  Supposing  it  came  to  the  worst, 
what  could  be  done  then?  First,  an  accident  might  happen 
to  the  schoolmaster  which  should  put  a  complete  and  final 
check  upon  his  projects  and  contrivances.  The  particular 
accident  which  might  interrupt  his  career  must,  evidently, 
be  determined  by  circumstances;  but  it  must  be  of  a  nature 
to  explain  itself  without  the  necessity  of  any  particular  per 
son's  becoming  involved  in  the  matter.  It  would  be  un 
pleasant  to  go  into  particulars;  but  everybody  knows  well 
enough  that  men  sometimes  get  in  the  way  of  a  stray  bullet, 
and  that  young  persons  occasionally  do  violence  to  them 
selves  in  various  modes, — by  fire-arms,  suspension,  and  other 
means, — in  consequence  of  disappointment  in  love,  perhaps, 
oftener  than  from  other  motives.  There  was  still  another 


£48  ELSIE   VEISTKER. 

kind  of  accident  which  might  serve  his  purpose.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  Elsie,  it  would  be  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  his  uncle  should  adopt  him,  his  nephew 
and  only  near  relation,  as  his  heir.  Unless,  indeed,  Uncle 
Dudley  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  marry  again.  In  that 
case,  where  would  he,  Dick,  be  ?  This  was  the  most  detestable 
complication  which  he  could  conceive  of.  And  yet  he  had 
noticed — he  could  not  help  noticing — that  his  uncle  had  been 
very  attentive  to,  and,  as  it  seemed,  very  much  pleased  with, 
that  young  woman  from  the  school.  What  did  that  mean? 
Was  it  possible  that  he  was  going  to  take  a  fancy  to  her  ? 

It  made  him  wild  to  think  of  all  the  several  contingencies 
which  might  defraud  him  of  that  good-fortune  which  seemed 
but  just  now  within  his  grasp.  He  glared  in  the  darkness  at 
imaginary  faces:  sometimes  at  that  of  the  handsome 
treacherous  schoolmaster ;  sometimes  at  that  of  the  meek-look 
ing,  but,  no  doubt,  scheming,  lady-teacher;  sometimes  at  that 
of  the  dark  girl  whom  he  was  ready  to  make  his  wife;  some 
times  at  that  of  his  much  respected  uncle,  who,  of  course, 
could  not  be  allowed  to  peril  the  fortunes  of  his  relatives  by 
forming  a  new  connection.  It  was  a  frightful  perplexity  in 
which  he  found  himself,  because  there  was  no  one  single  life 
an  accident  to  which  would  be  sufficient  to  insure  the  fitting 
and  natural  course  of  descent  to  the  great  Dudley  property. 
If  it  had  been  a  simple  question  of  helping  forward  a  casualty 
to  any  one  person,  there  was  nothing  in  Dick's  habits  of 
thought  and  living  to  make  that  a  serious  difficulty.  He  had 
been  so  much  with  lawless  people  that  a  life  between  his 
wish  and  his  object  seemed  only  as  an  obstacle  to  be  removed, 
provided  the  object  were  worth  the  risk  and  trouble.  But  if 
there  were  two  or  three  lives  in  the  way,  manifestly  that 
altered  the  case. 

His  Southern  blood  was  getting  impatient.  There  was 
enough  of  the  New-Englander  about  him  to  make  him  cal 
culate  his  chances  before  he  struck;  but  his  plans  were  liable 
to  be  defeated  at  any  moment  by  a  passionate  impulse  such 
as  the  dark-hued  races  of  Southern  Europe  and  their  descend 
ants  are  liable  to.  He  lay  in  his  bed,  sometimes  arranging 
plans  to  meet  the  various  difficulties  already  mentioned, 
sometimes  getting  into  a  paroxysm  of  blind  rage  in  the  per 
plexity  of  considering  what  object  he  should  select  as  the 
one  most  clearly  in  his  way.  On  the  whole,  there  could  be  no 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMAN.  249 

doubt  where  the  most  threatening  of  all  his  embarrassments 
lay.  It  was  in  the  probable  growing  relation  between  Elsie 
and  the  schoolmaster.  If  it  should  prove,  as  it  seemed  likely, 
that  there  was  springing  up  a  serious  attachment  tending  to  a 
union  between  them,  he  knew  what  he  should  do,  if  he  was  not 
quite  so  sure  how  he  should  do  it. 

There  was  one  thing  at  least  which  might  favor  his  proj 
ects,  and  which,  at  any  rate,  would  serve  to  amuse  him.  He 
could,  by  a  little  quiet  observation,  find  out  what  were  the 
schoolmaster's  habits  of  life:  whether  he  had  any  routine 
which  could  be  calculated  upon;  and  under  what  circum 
stances  a  strictly  private  interview  of  a  few  minutes  with 
him  might  be  reckoned  on,  in  case  it  should  be  desirable. 
He  could  also  very  probably  learn  some  facts  about  Elsie: 
whether  the  young  man  was  in  the  habit  of  attending  her  on 
her  way  home  from  school;  whether  she  stayed  about  the 
schoolroom  after  the  other  girls  had  gone ;  and  any  incidental 
matters  of  interest  which  might  present  themselves, 

He  was  getting  more  and  more  restless  for  want  of  some 
excitement.  A  mad  gallop,  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer, 
who  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  him,  or  a  chat  with  the  Widow 
Rowens,  who  was  very  lively  in  her  talk,  for  all  her  somber 
colors,  and  reminded  him  a  good  deal  of  some  of  his  earlier 
friends,  the  senoritas, — all  these  were  distractions,  to  be  sure, 
but  not  enough  to  keep  his  fiery  spirit  from  fretting  itself  in 
longings  for  more  dangerous  excitements.  The  thought  of 
getting  a  knowledge  of  all  Mr.  Bernard's  ways,  so  that  he 
would  be  in  his  power  at  any  moment,  was  a  happy  one. 

For  some  days  after  this  he  followed  Elsie  at  a  long  dis 
tance  behind,  to  watch  her  until  she  got  to  the  schoolhouse. 
One  day  he  saw  Mr.  Bernard  join  her :  a  mere  accident,  very 
probably,  for  it  was  only  once  this  happened.  'She  came  on 
her  homeward  way  alone, — quite  apart  from  the  groups  of 
girls  who  strolled  out  of  the  schoolhouse  yard  in  company. 
Sometimes  she  was  behind  them  all, — which  was  suggestive. 
Could  she  have  stayed  to  meet  the  schoolmaster  ? 

If  he  could  have  smuggled  himself  into  the  school,  he 
would  have  liked  to  watch  her  there,  and  see  if  there  was  not 
some  understanding  between  her  and  the  master  which  be 
trayed  itself  by  look  or  word.  But  this  was  beyond  the  limits 
of  his  audacity,  and  he  had  to  content  himself  with  snch 
cautious  observations  as  could  be  made  at  a  distance.  With 


250  ELSIE    VENJNEK. 

the  aid  of  a  pocket-glass  he  could  make  out  persons  without 
the  risk  of  being  observed  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham's  corps  of  instructors  was  not  expected 
to  be  off  duty  or  to  stand  at  ease  for  any  considerable  length 
of  time.  Sometimes  Mr.  Bernard,  who  had  more  freedom 
than  the  rest,  would  go  out  for  a  ramble  in  the  daytime,  but 
more  frequently  it  would  be  in  the  evening,  after  the  hour 
of  "  retiring,"  as  bedtime  was  elegantly  termed  by  the  young 
ladies  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  He  would  then  not  un- 
frequently  walk  out  alone  in  the  common  roads,  or  climb  up 
the  sides  of  The  Mountain,  which  seemed  to  be  one  of  his 
favorite  resorts.  Here,  of  course,  it  was  impossible  to  follow 
him  with  the  eye  at  a  distance.  Dick  had  a  hideous,  gnaw 
ing  suspicion  that  somewhere  in  these  deep  shades  the  school 
master  might  meet  Elsie,  whose  evening  wanderings  he  knew 
so  well.  But  of  this  he  was  not  able  to  assure  himself. 
Secrecy  was  necessary  to  his  present  plans,  and  he  could  not 
compromise  himself  by  over-eager  curiosity.  One  thing  he 
learned  with  certainty.  The  master  returned,  after  his  walk 
one  evening,  and  entered  the  building  where  his  room  was 
situated.  Presently  a  light  betrayed  the  window  of  his 
apartment.  From  a  wooded  bank,  some  thirty  or  forty  rods 
from  this  building,  Dick  Vernier  could  see  the  interior  of  the 
chamber,  and  watch  the  master  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  the  light 
falling  strongly  upon  his  face,  intent  upon  the  book  or  manu 
script  before  him.  Dick  contemplated  him  very  long  in  this 
attitude.  The  sense  of  watching  his  every  motion,  himself 
meanwhile  utterly  unseen,  was  delicious.  How  little  the 
master  was  thinking  what  eyes  were  on  him ! 

Well, — there  were  two  things  quite  certain.  One  was, 
that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  meet  the  schoolmaster  alone,  either 
in  the  road  or  in  a  more  solitary  place,  if  he  preferred  to 
watch  his  chance  for  an  evening  or  two.  The  other  was,  that 
he  commanded  his  position,  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  even 
ing,  in  such  a  way  that  there  would  be  very  little  difficulty, — 
so  far  as  that  went;  of  course,  however,  silence  is  always 
preferable  to  noise,  and  there  is  a  great  difference  in  the 
marks  left  by  different  casualties.  Very  likely  nothing  would 
f  come  of  all  this  espionage ;  but,  at  any  rate,  the  first  thing  to 
be  done  with  a  man  you  want  to  have  in  your  power  is  to  learn 
his  habits. 

Since  the  tea-party  at  the  Widow  Bowens's  Elsie  had  been 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMAN.  251 

more  fitful  and  moody  than  ever.  Dick  understood  all  this 
well  enough,  you  know.  It  was  the  working  of  her  jealousy 
against  that  young  schoolgirl  to  whom  the  master  had  de 
voted  himself  for  the  sake  of  piquing  the  heiress  of  the  Dud 
ley  mansion.  Was  it  possible,  in  any  way,  to  exasperate  her 
irritable  nature  against  him,  and  in  this  way  to  render  her 
more  accessible  to  his  own  advances?  It  was  difficult  to  in 
fluence  her  at  all.  She  endured  his  company  without  seeming 
to  enjoy  it.  She  watched  him  with  that  strange  look  of  hers, 
sometimes  as  if  she  were  on  her  guard  against  him,  sometimes 
as  if  she  would  like  to  strike  at  him  as  in  that  fit  of  childish, 
passion.  She  ordered  him  about  with  a  haughty  indifference 
which  reminded  him  of  his  own  way  with  the  dark-eyed 
women  whom  he  had  known  so  well  of  old.  All  this  added  a 
secret  pleasure  to  the  other  motives  he  had  for  worrying  her 
with  jealous  suspicions.  He  knew  she  brooded  silently  on  any 
grief  that  poisoned  her  comfort, — that  she  fed  on  it,  as  it 
were,  until  it  ran  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  veins, — and 
that,  except  in  some  paroxysm  of  rage,  of  which  he  himself 
was  not  likely  the  second  time  to  be  the  object,  or  in  some 
deadly  vengeance  wrought  secretly,  against  which  he  would 
keep  a  sharp  lookout,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  she  had  no 

outlet  for  her  dangerous,  smoldering  passions. 
— - — ...~. j 

Beware  of  the  woman  who  cannot  find  free  utterance  for 
all  her  stormy  inner  life  either  in  words  or  song !  So  long  as  a 
woman  can  talk,  there  is  nothing  she  cannot  bear.  If  she 
cannot  have  a  companion  to  listen  to  her  woes,  and  has  no 
musical  utterance,  vocal  or  instrumental, — then,  if  she  is  of 
the  real  woman  sort,  and  has  a  few  heartfuls  of  wild  blood  in 
her,  and  you  have  done  her  a  wrong, — double-bolt  the  door 
which  she  may  enter  on  noiseless  slipper  at  midnight, — look 
twice  before  you  taste  of  any  cup  whose  draught  the  shadow 
of  her  hand  may  have  darkened ! 

But  let  her  talk,  and,  above  all,  cry,  or,  if  she  is  one  of  the 
coarser-grained  tribe,  give  her  the  run  of  all  the  red-hot  ex 
pletives  in  the  language  and  let  her  blister  her  lips  with  them 
until  she  is  tired ;  she  will  sleep  like  a  lamb  after  it,  and  you 
may  take  a  cup  of  coffee  from  her  without  stirring  it  up  to 
look  for  its  sediment. 

So,  if  she  can  sing,  or  play  on  any  musical  instrument,  all 
her  wickedness  will  run  off  through  her  throat  or  the  tips  of 


252  ELSIE  VENNEB. 

her  fingers.  How  many  tragedies  find  their  peaceful  catas 
trophe  in  fierce  roulades  and  strenuous  bravuras !  How  many 
murders  are  executed  in  double-quick  time  upon  the  keys 
which  stab  the  air  with  their  dagger-strokes  of  sound !  What 
would  our  civilization  be  without  the  piano  ?  Are  not  Erard 
and  Broadwood  and  Chickering  the  true  humanizers  of  our 
time?  Therefore  do  I  love  to  hear  the  all-pervading  turn 
turn  jarring  the  walls  of  little  parlors  in  houses  with  double 
door-plates  on  their  portals,  looking  out  on  streets  and  courts 
which  to  know  is  to  be  unknown,  and  where  to  exist  is  not 
to  live,  according  to  any  true  definition  of  living.  Therefore 
complain  I  not  of  modern  degeneracy,  when,  even  from  the 
open  window  of  the  small  unlovely  farm-house,  tenanted  by 
the  hard-handed  man  of  bovine  flavors  and  the  flat-patterned 
woman  of  broken-down  countenance,  issue  the  same  familiar 
sounds  For  who  knows  that  Almira,  but  for  these  keys, 
which  throb  away  her  wild  impulses  in  harmless  discords, 
would  not  have  been  floating,  dead,  in  the  brown  stream  which 
slides  through  the  meadows  by  her  father's  door, — or  living, 
with  that  other  current  which  runs  beneath  the  gas-lights 
over  the  slimy  pavements,  choking  with  wretched  weeds  that 
were  once  in  spotless  flower  ? 

Poor  Elsie !  She  never  sang  nor  played.  She  never  shaped 
her  inner  life  in  words:  such  utterance  was  as  much  denied 
to  her  nature  as  common  articulate  speech  to  the  deaf  mute. 
Her  only  language  must  be  in  action.  Watch  her  well  by 
day  and  by  night,  Old  Sophy!  watch  her  well!  or  the  long 
line  of  her  honored  name  may  close  in  shame,  and  the  stately 
mansion  of  the  Dudleys  remain  a  hissing  and  a  reproach  till 
its  roof  is  buried  in  its  cellar ! 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

ON    HIS    TRACKS. 

"  Abel ! "  said  the  old  Doctor,  one  morning,  "  after  you've 
harnessed  Caustic,  come  into  the  study  a  few  minutes,  will 
you?" 

Abel  nodded.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  he  knew 
that  the  "  will  you "  did  not  require  an  answer,  being  the 
true  New-England  way  of  rounding  the  corners  of  an  em 
ployer's  order, — a  tribute  to  the  personal  independence  of  an 
American  citizen. 

The  hired  man  came  into  the  study  in  the  course  of  a  few 
minutes.  His  face  was  perfectly  still,  and  he  waited  to  be 
spoken  to;  but  the  Doctor's  eye  detected  a  certain  meaning  in 
his  expression,  which  looked  as  if  he  had  something  to  com 
municate. 

"  Well?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  He's  up  to  mischief  o'  some  kind,  I  guess,"  said  Abel. 
"  I  jest  happened  daown  by  the  mansion-haouse  last  night,  'n' 
he  come  aout  o'  the  gate  on  that  queer-lookin'  creatur'  o'  his. 
I  watched  him,  'n'  he  rid,  very  slow,  all  raoun'  by  the  Insti- 
toot,  'n'  acted  as  ef  he  was  spyin'  abaout.  He  looks  to  me 
like  a  man  that's  calc'latin'  to  do  some  kind  of  ill-turn  to 
somebody.  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  him  raoun'  me,  'f  there 
wa'n't  a  pitchfork  or  an  eel-spear  or  some  sech  weep'n  within 
reach.  He  may  be  all  right ;  but  I  don't  like  his  looks,  'n'  I 
don't  see  what  he's  lurkin'  raoun'  the  Institoot  for,  after  folks 
is  abed." 

"  Have  you  watched  him  pretty  close  for  the  last  few 
days  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Wll,  yes, — I've  had  my  eye  on  him  consid'ble  o'  the  time. 
I  haf  to  be  pooty  shy  abaout  it,  or  he'll  find  aout  th't  I'm  on 
his  tracks.  I  don'  want  him  to  get  a  spite  ag'inst  me,  'f  I 
c'n  help  it ;  he  looks  to  me  like  one  o'  them  kind  that  kerries 
what  they  call  slung-shot,  'n'  hits  ye  on  the  side  o'  th'  head 
with  'em  so  suddin  y'  never  know  what  hurts  ye." 


254  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

"  Why,"  said  the  Doctor,  sharply, — "  have  you  ever  seen 
him  with  any  such  weapon  about  him  ? " 

"  W'll,  no, — I  caaii't  say  that  I  hev,"  Abel  answered. 
"  On'y  he  looks  kin'  o'  dangerous.  Maybe  he's  all  jest  'z  he 
ought  to  be, — I  caan't  say  that  he  a'n't, — but  he's  aout  late 
nights,  'n'  lurkin'  raoun'  jest  'z  ef  he  wus  spyin'  somebody, 
'n'  somehaow  I  caan't  help  mistrustin'  them  Portagee-lookiii' 
fellahs.  I  caan't  keep  the  run  o'  this  chap  all  the  time ;  but 
I've  a  notion  that  old  black  woman  daown  't  the  mansion- 
haouse  knows  'z  much  abaout  him  'z  anybody." 

The  Doctor  paused  a  moment,  after  hearing  this  report 
from  his  private  detective,  and  then  got  into  his  chaise,  and 
turned  Caustic's  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Dudley  mansion. 
He  had  been  suspicious  of  Dick  from  the  first.  He  did  not 
like  his  mixed  blood,  nor  his  looks,  nor  his  ways.  He  had 
formed  a  conjecture  about  his  projects  early.  He  had  made 
a  shrewd  guess  as  to  the  probable  jealousy  Dick  would  feel  of 
the  schoolmaster,  had  found  out  something  of  his  movements, 
and  had  cautioned  Mr.  Bernard, — as  we  have  seen.  He  felt 
an  interest  in  the  young  man, — a  student  of  his  own  pro 
fession,  an  intelligent  and  ingenuously  unsuspecting  young 
fellow,  who  had  been  thrown  by  accident  into  the  companion 
ship  or  the  neighborhood  of  two  persons,  one  of  whom  he 
knew  to  be  dangerous,  and  the  other  he  believed  instinctively 
might  be  capable  of  crime. 

The  Doctor  rode  down  to  the  Dudley  mansion  solely  for  the 
sake  of  seeing  Old  Sophy.  He  was  lucky  enough  to  find  her 
alone  in  her  kitchen.  He  began  talking  with  her  as  a 
physician ;  he  wanted  to  know  how  her  rheumatism  had  been. 
The  shrewd  old  woman  saw  through  all 'that  with  her  little 
beady  black  eyes.  It  was  something  quite  different  he  had 
come  for,  and  Old  Sophy  answered  very  briefly  for  her  aches 
and  ails. 

"  Old  folks'  bones  a'n't  like  young  folks',"  she  said.  "  It's 
the  Lord's  doin's,  'n'  't  a'n't  much  matter.  I  sha'n'  be  long 
roun'  this  kitchen.  It's  the  young  Missis,  Doctor, — it's  our 
Elsie, — it's  the  baby,  as  we  use'  t'  call  her, — don't  you  remem 
ber,  Doctor  ?  Seventeen  year  ago,  'n'  her  poor  mother  cryin' 
for  her, — '  Where  is  she  ?  where  is  she  ?  Let  me  see  her !  '- 
?n'  how  I  run  upstairs, — I  could  run  then, — 'n'  got  the  coral 
necklace  'n'  put  it  round  her  little  neck,  'n'  then  showed  her 
to  her  motherz — V  how  her  mother  looked  at  her,  'n'  looked, 


ON    THE    TEACK.  255 

'n'  then  put  out  her  poor  thin  fingers  V  lifted  the  necklace, — • 
'n'  fell  right  back  on  her  piller,  as  white  as  though  she  was 
laid  out  to  bury  3  " 

The  Doctor  answered  her  by  silence  and  a  look  of  grave 
assent.  He  had  never  chosen  to  let  Old  Sophy  dwell  upon 
these  matters,  for  obvious  reasons.  The  girl  must  not  grow 
up  haunted  by  perpetual  fears  and  prophecies,  if  it  were 
possible  to  prevent  it. 

"  Well,  how  has  Elsie  seemed  of  late  ? "  he  said,  after  this 
brief  pause. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  Then  she  looked  up  at 
the  Doctor  so  steadily  and  searchingly  that  the  diamond  eyes 
of  Elsie  herself  could  hardly  have  pierced  more  deeply. 

The  Doctor  raised  his  head,  by  his  habitual  movement,  and 
met  the  old  woman's  look  with  his  own  calm  and  scrutinizing 
gaze,  sharpened  by  the  glasses  through  which  he  now  saw 
her. 

Sophy  spoke  presently  in  an  awed  tone,  as  if  telling  a 
vision. 

"  We  shall  be  havin'  trouble  before  long.  The'  's  somethin' 
comin'  from  the  Lord.  I've  had  dreams,  Doctor.  It's  many 
a  year  I've  been  a-dreamin',  but  now  they're  comin'  over  'n' 
over  the  same  thing.  Three  times  I've  dreamed  one  thing, 
Doctor, — one  thing !  " 

"  And  what  was  that  ?  "  the  Doctor  said,  with  that  shade  of 
curiosity  in  his  tone  which  a  metaphysician  would  probably 
say  is  an  index  of  a  certain  tendency  to  belief  in  the  super 
stition  to  which  the  question  refers. 

"  I  ca'n'  jestly  tell  y'  what  it  was,  Doctor,"  the  old  woman 
answered,  as  if  bewildered  and  trying  to  clear  up  her  recol 
lections  ;  "  but  it  was  somethin'  fearful,  with  a  great  noise  'n' 
a  great  cryin'  o'  people, — like  the  Las'  Day,  Doctor!  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  my  poor  chil',  'n'  take  care  of  her,  if  any 
thing  happens !  But  I's  feared  she'll  never  live  to  see  the  Las' 
Day,  'f  't  don'  come  pooty  quick." 

Poor  Sophy,  only  the  third  generation  from  cannibalism, 
was,  not  unnaturally,  somewhat  confused  in  her  theological 
notions.  Some  of  the  Second-Advent  preachers  had  been 
about,  and  circulated  their  predictions  among  the  kitchen- 
population  of  Rockland.  This  was  the  way  in  which  it 
happened  that  she  mingled  her  fears  in  such  a  strange  manner 
with  their  doctrines. 


256  ELSIE    VENNER. 

The  Doctor  answered  solemnly,  that  of  the  day  and  hour 
we  knew  not,  but  it  became  us  to  be  always  ready. — "  Is  there 
anything  going  on  in  the  household  different  from  common  ?  " 

Old  Sophy's  wrinkled  face  looked  as  full  of  life  and  intel 
ligence,  when  she  turned  it  full  upon  the  Doctor,  as  if  she 
had  slipped  off  her  infirmities  and  years  like  an  outer  gar 
ment.  All  those  fine  instincts  of  observation  which  came 
straight  to  her  from  her  savage  grandfather  looked  out  of 
her  little  eyes.  She  had  a  kind  of  faith  that  the  Doctor  was 
a  mighty  conqueror,  who,  if  he  would,  could  bewitch  any  of 
them.  She  had  relieved  her  feelings  by  her  long  talk  with 
the  minister,  but  the  Doctor  was  the  immediate  adviser  of  the 
family,  and  had  watched  them  through  all  their  troubles. 
Perhaps  he  could  tell  them  what  to  do.  She  had  but  one 
real  object  of  affection  in  the  world, — this  child  that  she  had 
tended  from  infancy  to  womanhood.  Troubles  were  gather 
ing  thick  round  her;  how  soon  they  would  break  upon  her, 
and  blight  or  destroy  her,  no  one  could  tell;  but  there  was 
nothing  in  all  the  catalogue  of  terrors  which  might  not  come 
upon  the  household  at  any  moment.  Her  own  wits  had 
sharpened  themselves  in  keeping  watch  by  day  and  night,  and 
her  face  had  forgotten  its  age  in  the  excitement  which  gave 
life  to  its  features. 

"  Doctor,"  Old  Sophy  said,  "  there's  strange  things  goin* 
on  here  by  night  and  by  day.  I  don'  like  that  man, — that 
Dick, — I  never  liked  him.  He  giv'  me  some  o'  these  things 
I'  got  on;  I  take  'em  'cos  I  know  it  make  him  mad,  if  I  no 
take  'em ;  I  wear  'em,  so  that  he  needn'  feel  as  if  I  didn'  like 
him!  but,  Doctor,  I  hate  him, — jes'  as  much  as  a  member  o' 
the  church  has  the  Lord's  leave  to  hate  anybody." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  with  the  old  savage  light,  as  if  her  ill- 
will  to  Mr.  Richard  Venner  might  perhaps  go  a  little  farther 
than  the  Christian  limit  she  had  assigned.  But  remember 
that  her  grandfather  was  in  the  habit  of  inviting  his  friends 
to  dine  with  him  upon  the  last  enemy  he  had  bagged,  and 
that  her  grandmother's  teeth  were  filed  down  to  points,  so 
that  they  were  as  sharp  as  a  shark's. 

"  What  is  that  you  have  seen  about  Mr.  Richard  Venner 
that  gives  you  such  a  spite  against  him,  Sophy  ? "  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  What  I'  seen  'bout  Dick  Venner  ? "  she  replied,  fiercely. 
"  I'll  tell  y'  what  I'  seen,  Dick  wan's  to  marry  our  Elsie, — • 


ON  THE  TRACK.  257 

that's  what  he  wan's;  'n'  he  don'  love  her,  Doctor, — he  hates 
her,  Doctor,  as  bad  as  I  hate  him!  He  wan's  to  marry  our 
Elsie,  'n'  live  here  in  the  big  house,  'n'  have  nothin'  to  do  but 
jes'  lay  still  'n'  watch  Massa  Venner  'n'  see  how  long  't  '11 
take  him  to  die,  'n'  'f  he  don'  die  fas'  'nuff,  help  him  some 
way  t'  die  f asser ! — Come  close  up  t'  me,  Doctor !  I  wan'  t' 
tell  you  somethin'  I  tol'  th'  minister  t'other  day.  Th'  min 
ister,  he  come  down  'n'  prayed  'n'  talked  good, — he's  a  good 
man,  that  Doctor  Honeywood,  'n'  I  tol'  him  all  'bout  our 
Elsie, — but  he  didn'  tell  nobody  what  to  do  to  stop  all  what 
I  been  dreamin'  about  happenin'.  Come  close  up  to  me, 
Doctor!" 

The  Doctor  drew  his  ohair  close  up  to  that  of  the  old 
woman. 

"  Doctor,  nobody  mus'n  never  marry  our  Elsie's  long  's  she 
lives.  Nobody  mus'n'  never  live  with  Elsie  but  Ol'  Sophy; 
'n'  Ol'  Sophy  won't  never  die  's  long  's  Elsie  's  alive  to  be  took 
care  of.  But  I's  feared,  Doctor,  I's  greatly  feared  Elsie  wan' 
to  marry  somebody.  The'  s'  a  young  gen'l'm'n  up  at  that 
school  where  she  go, — so  some  of  'em  tells  me, — 'n'  she  loves 
t'  see  him  'n'  talk  wi'  him,  'n'  she  talks  about  him  when  she's 
asleep  sometimes.  She  mus'n'  never  marry  nobody,  Doctor! 
If  she  do,  he  die,  certain !  " 

"  If  she  has  a  fancy  for  the  young  man  up  at  the  school 
there,"  the  Doctor  said,  "  I  shouldn't  think  there  would  be 
much  danger  from  Dick." 

"  Doctor,  nobody  know  nothin'  'bout  Elsie  but  Ol'  Sophy. 
She  no  like  any  other  creatur'  th't  ever  drawed  the  bref  o' 
life.  If  she  ca'n'  marry  one  man  'cos  she  love  him,  she  marry 
another  man  'cos  she  hate  him." 

"  Marry  a  man  because  she  hates  him,  Sophy  ?  No  woman 
ever  did  such  a  thing  as  that,  or  ever  will  do  it." 

"  Who  tol'  you  Elsie  was  a  woman,  Doctor  ? "  said  Old 
Sophy,  with  a  flash  of  strange  intelligence  in  her  eyes. 

The  Doctor's  face  showed  that  he  was  startled.  The  old 
woman  could  not  know  much  about  Elsie  that  he  did  not 
know;  but  what  strange  superstition  had  got  into  her  head, 
he  was  puzzled  to  guess.  He  had  better  follow  Sophy's  lead 
and  find  out  what  she  meant. 

"  I  should  call  Elsie  a  woman,  and  a  very  handsome  one," 
he  said.  "  You  don't  mean  that  she  has  any  mark  about  her, 
except — you  know — under  the  necklace  ?  " 


258  ELSIE   VENKER. 

The  old  woman  resented  the  thought  of  any  deformity 
about  her  darling. 

"  I  didn'  say  she  had  nothin' — but  jes'  that — you  know. 
My  beauty  have  anything  ugly?  She's  the  beautifullest- 
shaped  lady  that  ever  had  a  shinin'  silk  gown  drawed  over  her 
shoulders.  On'y  she  a'n't  like  no  other  woman  in  none  of  her 
ways.  She  don't  cry  'n'  laugh  like  other  women.  An'  she 
ha'n'  got  the  same  kind  o'  feelin's  as  other  women. — Do  you 
know  that  young  gen'l'm'n  up  at  the  school,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sophy,  I've  met  him  sometimes.  He's  a  very  nice 
sort  of  young  man,  handsome,  too,  and  I  don't  much  wonder 
Elsie  takes  to  him.  Tell  me,  Sophy,  what  do  you  think 
would  happen,  if  he  should  chance  to  fall  in  love  with  Elsie, 
and  she  with  him,  and  he  should  marry  her  ? " 

"  Put  your  ear  close  to  my  lips,  Doctor,  dear !  "  She  whis 
pered  a  little  to  the  Doctor,  then  added  aloud,  "  He  die, — 
that's  all." 

"  But  surely,  Sophy,  you  a'n't  afraid  to  have  Dick  marry 
her,  if  she  would  have  him  for  any  reason,  are  you  ?  He  can 
take  care  of  himself,  if  anybody  can." 

"  Doctor !  "  Sophy  answered,  "  nobody  can  take  care  of 
hisself  that  live  wi'  Elsie!  Nobody  never  in  all  this  worl' 
mus'  live  wi'  Elsie  but  Ol'  Sophy,  I  tell  you.  You  don'  think 
I  care  for  Dick?  What  do  I  care,  if  Dick  Venner  die?  He 
wan's  to  marry  our  Elsie  so  's  to  live  in  the  big  house  'n'  get 
all  the  money  'n'  all  the  silver  things  'n'  all  the  chists  full  o' 
linen  V  beautiful  clothes!  That's  what  Dick  wan's.  An' 
he  hates  Elsie  'cos  she  don'  like  him.  But  if  he  marry  Elsie, 
she'll  make  him  die  some  wrong  way  or  other,  'n'  they'll  take 
her  'n'  hang  her,  or  he'll  get  mad  with  her  'n'  choke  her. — 
Oh,  I  know  his  chokin'  tricks! — he  don'  leave  his  keys  roun' 
for  nothin' !  " 

"What's  that  you  say,  Sophy?  Tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  all  that." 

So  poor  Sophy  had  to  explain  certain  facts  not  in  all 
respects  to  her  credit.  She  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  his 
absence  to  look  about  his  chamber,  and,  having  found  a  key 
in  one  of  his  drawers,  had  applied  it  to  a  trunk,  and,  finding 
that  it  opened  the  trunk,  had  made  a  kind  of  inspection  for 
contraband  articles,  and,  seeing  the  end  of  a  leather  thong, 
had  followed  it  up  until  she  saw  that  it  finished  with  a  noose, 
which,  from  certain  appearances,  she  inferred  to  have  seen 


ON    THE    TRACK.  259 

service  of  at  least  doubtful  nature.  An  unauthorized  search; 
but  Old  Sophy  considered  that  a  game  of  life  and  death  was 
going  on  in  the  household,  and  that  she  was  bound  to  look  out 
for  her  darling. 

The  Doctor  paused  a  moment  to  think  over  this  odd  piece 
of  information.  Without  sharing  Sophy's  belief  as  to  the 
kind  of  use  this  mischievous-looking  piece  of  property  had 
been  put  to,  it  was  certainly  very  odd  that  Dick  should  have 
such  a  thing  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk.  The  Doctor  re 
membered  reading  or  hearing  something  about  the  lasso  and 
the  lariat  and  the  bolas,  and  had  an  indistinct  idea  that  they 
had  been  sometimes  used  as  weapons  of  warfare  or  private 
revenge;  but  they  were  essentially  a  huntsman's  implements, 
after  all,  and  it  was  not  very  strange  that  this  young  man 
had  brought  one  of  them  with  him.  Not  strange,  perhaps, 
but  worth  noting. 

"  Do  you  really  think  Dick  means  mischief  to  anybody, 
that  he  has  such  dangerous-looking  things  ? "  the  Doctor 
said,  presently. 

"  I  tell  you,  Doctor.  Dick  means  to  have  Elsie.  If  he 
ca'n'  get  her,  he  never  let  nobody  else  have  her.  Oh,  Dick's 
a  dark  man,  Doctor !  I  know  him !  I  'member  him  when  he 
was  little  boy, — he  always  cuiinin'.  I  think  he  mean  mis 
chief  to  somebody.  He  come  home  late  nights, — come  in 
softly, — oh,  I  hear  him!  I  lay  awake,  'n'  got  sharp  ears, — I 
hear  the  cats  walkiii'  over  the  roofs, — 'n'  I  hear  Dick  Vernier, 
when  he  comes  up  in  his  stockiii'-feet  as  still  as  a  cat.  I 
think  he  mean  mischief  to  somebody.  I  no  like  his  looks 
these  las'  days. — Is  that  a  very  pooty  gen'l'm'n  up  at  the 
schoolhouse,  Doctor  ? " 

"  I  told  you  he  was  good-looking.     What  if  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,  Doctor, — I  should  like  to  see  the 
pooty  gen'l'm'n  that  my  poor  Elsie  loves.  She  mus'n  never 
marry  nobody, — but,  oh,  Doctor,  I  should  like  to  see  him,  'n' 
jes'  think  a  little  how  it  would  ha'  been,  if  the  Lord  hadn' 
been  so  hard  on  Elsie." 

She  wept  and  wrung  her  hands.  The  kind  Doctor  was 
touched,  and  left  her  a  moment  to  her  thoughts. 

"And  how  does  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  take  all  this?"  he 
said,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject  a  little. 

"  Oh,  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but  he  don'  know 
nothin'  'bout  Elsie,  as  OF  Sophy  do.  I  keep  close  by  her;  I 


260  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

help  her  when  she  go  to  bed,  'n'  set  by  her  sometime  when  she 
'sleep;  I  come  to  her  in  th'  mornin'  'n'  help  her  put  on  her 
things." — Then,  in  a  whisper, — "  Doctor,  Elsie  lets  OP  Sophy 
take  off  that  necklace  for  her.  What  you  think  she  do,  'f 
anybody  else  tech  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  Sophy, — strike  the  person, 
perhaps." 

"  Oh,  yes,  strike  'em !  but  not  with  her  han's,  Doctor !  "- 
The  old  woman's  significant  pantomime  must  be  guessed  at. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me,  Sophy,  what  Mr.  Dudley  Venner 
thinks  of  his  nephew,  nor  whether  he  has  any  notion  that 
Dick  wants  to  marry  Elsie." 

"  I  tell  you.  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but  he  no  see 
nothin'  'bout  what  goes  on  here  in  the  house.  He  sort  o' 
broken-hearted,  you  know, — sort  o'  giv'  up, — don'  know  what 
to  do  wi'  Elsie,  'xcep'  say  l  Yes,  yes.'  Dick  always  look 
smilin'  'n'  behave  well  before  him.  One  time  I  thought 
Massa  Venner  b'lieve  Dick  was  goin'  to  take  to  Elsie;  but 
now  he  don'  seem  to  take  much  notice, — he  kin'  o'  stupid-like 
'bout  sech  things.  It's  trouble,  Doctor;  'cos  Massa  Venner 
bright  man  naterally, — 'n'  he's  got  a  great  heap  o'  books.  I 
don'  think  Massa  Venner  never  been  jes'  heself  seiice  Elsie's 
born.  He  done  all  he  know  how, — but,  Doctor,  that  wa'n' 
a  great  deal.  You  men-folks  don'  know  nothin'  bout  these 
young  gals;  '11'  'f  you  knowed  all  the  young  gals  that  ever 
lived,  y'  wouldii'  know  nothin'  'bout  our  Elsie." 

"  No, — but,  Sophy,  what  I  want  to  know  is,  whether  you 
think  Mr.  Venner  has  any  kind  of  suspicion  about  his 
nephew, — whether  he  has  any  notion  that  he's  a  dangerous 
sort  of  fellow, — or  whether  he  feels  safe  to  have  him  about, 
or  has  even  taken  a  sort  of  fancy  to  him." 

"  Lor'  bless  you,  Doctor,  Massa  Venner  no  more  idee  'f  any 
mischief  'bout  Dick  than  he  has  'bout  you  or  me.  Y'  see,  he 
very  fond  o'  the  Cap'n, — that  Dick's  father, — 'n'  he  live  so 
long  alone  here,  'long  wi'  us,  that  he  kin'  o'  like  to  see  inos' 
anybody  t'  s'  got  any  o'  th'  oP  family-blood  in  'em.  He 
ha'n't  got  no  more  suspicions  '11  a  baby, — y'  never  see  sech  a 
man  'n  y'r  life.  I  kin'  o'  think  he  don'  care  for  nothin'  in 
this  world  'xcep'  jes'  f  do  what  Elsie  wan's  him  to.  The  fus' 
year  after  young  Madam  die  he  do  nothin'  but  jes'  set  at  the 
window  'n'  look  out  at  her  grave,  'n'  then  come  up  'n'  look  at 
the  baby's  neck  'n'  say,  'It's  fadin',  Sophy,  a'n't  it?' 


OK  THE  TKACK.  261 

'n'  then  go  down  in  the  study  'n'  walk  'n'  walk,  'n'  then  kneel 
down  'n'  pray.  Doctor,  there  was  two  places  in  the  old  carpet 
that  was  all  threadbare,  where  his  knees  had  worn  'em.  An' 
sometimes, — you  remember  'bout  all  that, — he'd  go  off  up 
into  The  Mountain,  'n'  be  gone  all  day,  'n'  kill  all  the  Ugly 
Things  he  could  find  up  there. — Oh,  Doctor,  I  don'  like  to 
think  o'  them  days! — An'  by-'n'-by  he  grew  kin'  o'  still,  'n' 
begun  to  read  a  little,  'n'  't  las'  he  got's  quiet's  a  lamb,  'n' 
that's  the  way  he  is  now.  I  think  he's  got  religion,  Doctor; 
but  he  a'n't  so  bright  about  what's  goin'  on,  'n'  I  don't  believe 
he  never  suspec'  nothin'  till  somethin'  happens; — for  the'  's 
somethin'  goin'  to  happen,  Doctor,  if  the  Las'  Day  doesn' 
come  to  stop  it;  'n'  you  mus'  tell  us  what  to  do,  'n'  save  my 
poor  Elsie,  my  baby  that  the  Lord  hasn'  took  care  of  like  all 
his  other  childer." 

The  Doctor  assured  the  old  woman  that  he  was  thinking 
a  great  deal  about  them  all,  and  that  there  were  other  eyes  on 
Dick  besides  her  own.  Let  her  watch  him  closely  about  the 
house,  and  he  would  keep  a  look-out  elsewhere.  If  there  was 
anything  new,  she  must  let  him  know  at  once.  Send  up  one 
of  the  men-servants,  and  he  would  come  down  at  a  moment's 
warning. 

There  was  really  nothing  definite  against  this  young  man; 
but  the  Doctor  was  sure  that  he  was  meditating  some  evil 
design  or  other.  He  rode  straight  up  to  the  Institute.  There 
he  saw  Mr.  Bernard,  and  had  a  brief  conversation  with  him, 
principally  on  matters  relating  to  his  personal  interests. 

That  evening,  for  some  unknown  reason,  Mr.  Bernard 
changed  the  place  of  his  desk  and  drew  down  the  shades  of 
his  windows.  Late  that  night  Mr.  Bichard  Venner  drew  the 
charge  of  a  rifle,  and  put  the  gun  back  among  the  fowling- 
pieces,  swearing  that  a  leather  halter  was  worth  a  dozen  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    PERILOUS    HOUR. 

Up  to  this  time  Dick  Venner  had  not  decided  on  the  par 
ticular  mode  and  the  precise  period  of  relieving  himself 
from  the  unwarrantable  interference  which  threatened  to 
defeat  his  plans.  The  luxury  of  feeling  that  he  had  his  man 
in  his  power  was  its  own  reward.  One  who  watches  in  the 
dark,  outside,  while  his  enemy,  in  utter  unconsciousness,  is 
illuminating  his  apartment  and  himself  so  that  every  move 
ment  of  his  head  and  every  button  on  his  coat  can  be  seen 
and  counted,  experiences  a  peculiar  kind  of  pleasure,  if  he 
holds  a  loaded  rifle  in  his  hand,  which  he  naturally  hates  to 
bring  to  its  climax  by  testing  his  skill  as  a  marksman  upon 
the  object  of  his  attention. 

Besides,  Dick  had  two  sides  to  his  nature,  almost  as  dis 
tinct  as  we  sometimes  observe  in  those  persons  who  are  the 
subjects  of  the  condition  known  as  double  consciousness.  On 
his  New  England  side  he  was  cunning  and  calculating,  al 
ways  cautious,  measuring  his  distance  before  he  risked  his 
stroke,  as  nicely  as  if  he  were  throwing  his  lasso.  But  he 
was  liable  to  intercurrent  fits  of  jealousy  a«nd  rage,  such  as 
the  light-hued  races  are  hardly  capable  of  conceiving, — 
blinding  paroxysms  of  passion,  which  for  the  time  over 
mastered  him,  and  which,  if  they  found  no  ready  outlet, 
transformed  themselves  into  the  more  dangerous  forces  that 
worked  through  the  instrumentality  of  his  cool  craftiness. 

He  had  failed  as  yet  in  getting  any  positive  evidence  that 
there  was  any  relation  between  Elsie  and  the  schoolmaster 
other  than  such  as  might  exist  unsuspected  and  unblamed 
between  a  teacher  and  his  pupil.  A  book,  or  a  note,  even,  did 
not  prove  the  existence  of  any  sentiment.  At  one  time  he 
would  be  devoured  by  suspicions,  at  another  he  would  try  to 
laugh  himself  out  of  them.  And  in  the  meanwhile  he  fol 
lowed  Elsie's  tastes  as  closely  as  he  could,  determined  to 
make  some  impression  upon  her, — to  become  a  habit,  a  con- 


THE   PERILOUS    HOUE.  263 

venience,  a  necessity, — whatever  might  aid  him  in  the  attain 
ment  of  the  one  end  which  was  now  the  aim  of  his  life. 

It  was  to  humor  one  of  her  tastes  already  known  to  the 
reader,  that  he  said  to  her  one  morning, — "  Come,  Elsie,  take 
your  castanets,  and  let  us  have  a  dance." 

He  had  struck  the  right  vein  in  the  girl's  fancy,  for  she 
was  in  the  mood  for  this  exercise,  and  very  willingly  led  the 
way  into  one  of  the  more  empty  apartments.  What  there 
was  in  this  particular  kind  of  dance  which  excited  her  it 
might  not  be  easy  to  guess ;  but  those  who  looked  in  with  the 
old  Doctor,  on  a  former  occasion,  and  saw  her,  will  remember 
that  she  was  strangely  carried  away  by  it,  and  became  almost 
fearful  in  the  vehemence  of  her  passion.  The  sound  of  the 
castanets  seemed  to  make  her  alive  all  over.  Dick  knew  well 
enough  what  the  exhibition  would  be,  and  was  almost  afraid 
of  her  at  these  moments;  for  it  was  like  the  dancing  mania 
of  Eastern  devotees,  more  than  the  ordinary  light  amuse 
ment  of  joyous  youth, — a  convulsion  of  the  body  and  mind, 
rather  than  a  series  of  voluntary  modulated  motions. 

Elsie  rattled  out  the  triple  measure  of  a  saraband.  Her 
eyes  began  to  glitter  more  brilliantly,  and  her  shape  to  un 
dulate  in  freer  curves.  Presently  she  noticed  that  Dick's 
look  was  fixed  upon  her  necklace.  His  face  betrayed  his 
curiosity ;  he  was  intent  on  solving  the  question,  why  she  al 
ways  wore  something  about  her  neck.  The  chain  of  mosaics 
she  had  on  at  that  moment  displaced  itself  at  every  step,  and 
he  was  peering  with  malignant,  searching  eagerness  to  see  if 
an  unsunned  ring  of  fairer  hue  than  the  rest  of  the  surface, 
or  any  less  easily  explained  peculiarity,  were  hidden  by  her 
ornaments. 

She  stopped  suddenly,  caught  the  chain  of  mosaics  and 
settled  it  hastily  in  its  place,  flung  down  her  castanets,  drew 
herself  back  and  stood  looking  at  him,  with  her  head  a  little 
on  one  side,  and  her  eyes  narrowing  in  the  way  he  had  known 
so  long  and  well. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Cousin  Elsie  ?  What  do  you  stop 
for?"  he  said. 

Elsie  did  not  answer,  but  kept  her  eyes  on  him,  full  of 
malicious  light.  The  jealousy  which  lay  covered  up  under 
his  surface-thoughts  took  this  opportunity  to  break  out. 

"  You  wouldn't  act  so,  if  you  were  dancing  with  Mr.  Lang- 
don, — would  you,  Elsie?"  he  asked. 


264  ELSIE  VENNEK. 

It  was  with  some  effort  that  he  looked  steadily  at  her  to  see 
the  effect  of  his  question. 

Elsie  colored, — not  much,  but  still  perceptibly.  Dick  could 
not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen  her  show  this  mark  of 
emotion  before,  in  all  his  experience  of  her  fitful  changes  of 
mood.  It  had  a  singular  depth  of  significance,  therefore, 
for  him;  he  knew  how  hardly  her  color  came.  Blushing 
means  nothing,  in  some  persons;  in  others,  it  betrays  a  pro 
found  inward  agitation, — a  perturbation  of  the  feelings  far 
more  trying  than  the  passions  which  with  many  easily  moved 
persons  break  forth  in  tears.  All  who  have  observed  much 
are  aware  that  some  men,  who  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life 
in  its  less  chastened  aspects  and  are  anything  but  modest, 
will  blush  often  and  easily,  while  there  are  delicate  and 
sensitive  women  who  can  faint,  or  go  into  fits,  if  necessary, 
but  are  very  rarely  seen  to  betray  their  feelings  in  their 
cheeks,  even  when  their  expression  shows  that  their  inmost 
soul  is  blushing  scarlet. 

Presently  she  answered,  abruptly  and  scornfully, — 

"  Mr.  Langdon  is  a  gentleman,  and  would  not  vex  me  as 
you  do." 

"  A  gentleman !  "  Dick  answered,  with  the  most  insulting 
accent, — "  a  gentleman !  Come,  Elsie,  you've  got  the  Dudley 
blood  in  your  veins,  and  it  doesn't  do  for  you  to  call  this 
poor,  sneaking  schoolmaster  a  gentleman !  " 

He  stopped  short.  Elsie's  bosom  was  heaving,  the  faint 
flush  on  her  cheek  was  becoming  a  vivid  glow.  Whether  it 
were  shame  or  wrath,  he  saw  that  he  had  reached  some  deep- 
lying  center  of  emotion.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  in 
his  mind.  With  another  girl  these  signs  of  confusion  might 
mean  little  or  nothing ;  with  her  they  were  decisive  and  final. 
Elsie  Venner  loved  Bernard  Langdon. 

The  sudden  conviction,  absolute,  overwhelming,  which 
rushed  upon  him,  had  well-nigh  led  to  an  explosion  of  wrath, 
and  perhaps  some  terrible  scene  which  might  have  fulfilled 
some  of  old  Sophy's  predictions.  This,  however,  would  never 
do.  Dick's  face  whitened  with  his  thoughts,  but  he  kept 
still  until  he  could  speak  calmly. 

"  I've  nothing  against  the  young  fellow,"  he  said ;  "  only 
I  don't  think  there's  anything  quite  good  enough  to  keep  the 
company  of  people  that  have  the  Dudley  blood  in  them.  You 
as  proud  as  I  am.  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind  to 


THE   PERILOUS    HOUK.  265 

call  a  schoolmaster  a  gentleman,  though  this  one  may  be  well 
enough.  I've  nothing  against  him,  at  any  rate." 

Elsie  made  no  answer,  but  glided  out  of  the  room  and  slid 
away  to  her  own  apartment.  She  bolted  the  door  and  drew 
her  curtains  close.  Then  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and 
fell  into  a  dull,  slow  ache  of  passion,  without  tears,  without 
words,  almost  without  thoughts.  So  she  remained,  perhaps, 
for  a  half -hour,  at  the  end  of  which  time  it  seemed  that  her 
passion  had  become  a  sullen  purpose.  She  arose,  and,  look 
ing  cautiously  round,  went  to  the  hearth,  which  was  orna 
mented  with  curious  old  Dutch  tiles,  with  pictures  of 
Scripture  subjects.  One  of  these  represented  the  lifting  of 
the  brazen  serpent.  She  took  a  hair-pin  from  one  of  her 
braids,  and,  insinuating  its  points  under  the  edge  of  the 
tile,  raised  it  from  its  place.  A  small  leaden  box  lay  under 
the  tile,  which  she  opened,  and,  taking  from  it  a  little  white 
powder,  which  she  folded  in  a  scrap  of  paper,  replaced  the 
box  and  the  tile  over  it. 

Whether  Dick  had  by  any  means  got  a  knowledge  of  this 
proceeding,  or  whether  he  only  suspected  some  unmention 
able  design  on  her  part,  there  is  no  sufficient  means  of  deter 
mining.  At  any  rate,  when  they  met,  an  hour  or  two  after 
these  occurrences,  he  could  not  help  noticing  how  easily  she 
seemed  to  have  got  over  her  excitement.  She  was  very  pleas 
ant  with  him, — too  pleasant,  Dick  thought.  It  was  not 
Elsie's  way  to  come  out  of  a  fit  of  anger  so  easily  as  that. 
She  had  contrived  some  way  of  letting  off  her  spite;  that 
was  certain.  Dick  was  pretty  cunning,  as  Old  Sophy  had 
said,  and,  whether  or  not  he  had  any  means  of  knowing 
Elsie's  private  intentions,  watched  her  closely,  and  was  on 
his  guard  against  accidents. 

For  the  first  time  he  took  certain  precautions  with  reference 
to  his  diet,  such  as  were  quite  alien  to  his  common  habits. 
On  coming  to  the  dinner-table,  that  day,  he  complained  of  a 
headache,  took  but  little  food,  and  refused  the  cup  of  coffee 
which  Elsie  offered  him,  saying  that  it  did  not  agree  with 
him  when  he  had  these  attacks. 

Here  was  a  new  complication.  Obviously  enough,  he 
could  not  live  in  this  way,  suspecting  everything  but  plain 
bread  and  water,  and  hardly  feeling  safe  in  meddling  with 
them.  Not  only  had  this  school-keeping  wretch  come  be 
tween  him  and  the  scheme  by  which  he  was  to  secure  his 


266  ELSIE    VENKER. 

future  fortune,  but  his  image  had  so  infected  his  cousin's 
mind  that  she  was  ready  to  try  on  him  some  of  those  tricks 
which,  as  he  had  heard  hinted  in  the  village,  she  had  once  be 
fore  put  in  practice  upon  a  person  who  had  become  odious 
to  her. 

Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once,  to  meet  the  double 
necessities  of  this  case.  Every  day,  while  the  young  girl 
was  in  these  relations  with  the  young  man,  was  only  making 
matters  worse.  They  could  exchange  words  and  looks,  they 
could  arrange  private  interviews,  they  would  be  stooping 
together  over  the  same  book,  her  hair  touching  his  cheek, 
her  breath  mingling  with  his,  all  the  magnetic  attractions 
drawing  them  together  with  strange,  invisible  influences. 
As  her  passion  for  the  schoolmaster  increased,  her  dislike  to 
him,  her  cousin,  would  grow  with  it,  and  all  his  dangers 
would  be  multiplied.  It  was  a  fearful  point  he  had  reached. 
He  was  tempted  at  one  moment  to  give  up  all  his  plans  and 
to  disappear  suddenly  from  the  place,  leaving  with  the 
schoolmaster,  who  had  come  between  him  and  his  object,  an 
anonymous  token  of  his  personal  sentiments  which  would  be 
remembered  a  good  while  in  the  history  of  the  town  of  Rock- 
land.  This  was  but  a  momentary  thought ;  the  great  Dudley 
property  could  not  be  given  up  in  that  way. 

Something  must  happen  at  once  to  break  up  all  this  order 
of  things.  He  could  think  of  but  one  Providential  event 
adequate  to  the  emergency, — an  event  f orshadowed  by  vari 
ous  recent  circumstances,  but  hitherto  floating  in  his  mind 
only  as  a  possibility.  Its  occurrence  would  at  once  change 
the  course  of  Elsie's  feelings,  providing  her  with  something 
to  think  of  besides  mischief,  and  remove  the  accursed  ob 
stacle  which  was  thwarting  all  his  own  projects.  Every  pos 
sible  motive,  then, — his  interest,  his  jealousy,  his  longing 
for  revenge,  and  now  his  fears  for  his  own  safety, — urged 
him  to  regard  the  happening  of  a  certain  casualty  as  a  matter 
of  simple  necessity.  This  was  the  self-destruction  of  Mr. 
Bernard  Langdon. 

Such  an  event,  though  it  might  be  surprising  to  many 
people,  would  not  be  incredible,  nor  without  many  parallel 
cases.  He  was  poor,  a  miserable  fag,  under  the  control  of 
that  mean  wretch  up  there  at  the'  school,  who  looked  as  if  he 
had  sour  buttermilk  in  his  veins  instead  of  blood.  He  was 
in  love  with  a  girl  above  his  station,  rich,  and  of  old  family, 


THE   PERILOUS   HOUR.  267 

but  strange  in  all  her  ways,  and  it  was  conceivable  that  he 
should  become  suddenly  jealous  of  her.  Or  she  might  have 
frightened  him  with  some  display  of  her  peculiarities  which 
had  filled  him  with  a  sudden  repugnance  in  the  place  of  love. 
Any  of  these  things  were  credible,  and  would  make  a  probable 
story  enough, — so  thought  Dick  over  to  himself  with  the  New- 
England  half  of  his  mind. 

Unfortunately,  men  will  not  always  take  themselves  out  of 
the  way  when,  so  far  as  their  neighbors  are  concerned,  it 
would  be  altogether  the  most  appropriate  and  graceful  and 
acceptable  service  they  could  render.  There  was  at  this  par 
ticular  moment  no  special  reason  for  believing  that  the 
schoolmaster  meditated  any  violence  to  his  own  person.  On 
the  contrary,  there  was  good  evidence  that  he  was  taking 
some  care  of  himself.  He  was  looking  well  and  in  good 
spirits,  and  in  the  habit  of  amusing  himself  and  exercising, 
as  if  to  keep  up  his  standard  of  health,  especially  of  taking 
certain  evening-walks,  before  referred  to,  at  an  hour  when 
most  of  the  Eockland  people  had  "retired,"  or,  in  vulgar 
language,  "  gone  to  bed." 

Dick  Venner  settled  it,  however,  in  his  own  mind,  that 
Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  must  lay  violent  hands  upon  himself. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  determine  the  precise  hour,  and  the 
method  in  which  the  "  rash  act,"  as  it  would  undoubtedly  be 
called  in  the  next  issue  of  "  The  Rockland  Weekly  Uni 
verse,"  should  be  committed.  Time, — this  evening.  Method, 
— asphyxia,  by  suspension.  It  was,  unquestionably,  taking 
a  great  liberty  with  a  man  to  decide  that  he  should  become 
felo  de  se  without  his  own  consent.  Such,  however,  was  the 
decision  of  Mr.  Richard  Venner  with  regard  to  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon. 

If  everything  went  right,  then,  there  would  be  a  coroner's 
inquest  to-morrow  upon  what  remained  of  that  gentleman, 
found  suspended  to  the  branch  of  a  tree  somewhere  within  a 
mile  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  The  "  Weekly  Universe  " 
would  have  a  startling  paragraph  announcing  a  "  SAD 
EVENT ! ! !  "  which  had  "  thrown  the  town  into  an  intense 
state  of  excitement.  Mr.  Barnard  Langden,  a  well  known 
teacher  at  the  Appolinian  Institute,  was  found,  etc.,  etc. 
The  vital  spark  was  extinct.  The  motive  to  the  rash  act 
can  only  be  conjectured,  but  it  is  supposed  to  be  disapointed 
affection.  The  name  of  an  accomplished  young  lady  of  the 


268  ELSIE   VENNER. 

highest  respectability  and  great  beauty  is  mentioned  in  con 
nection  with  this  melancholy  occurence." 

Dick  Venner  was  at  the  tea-table  that  evening,  as  usual. — 
No,  he  would  take  green  tea,  if  she  pleased, — the  same  that 
her  father  drank.  It  would  suit  his  headache  better. — Noth 
ing, — he  was  much  obliged  to  her.  He  would  help  himself, 
— which  he  did  in  a  little  different  way  from  common,  natur 
ally  enough,  on  account  of  his  headache.  He  noticed  that 
Elsie  seemed  a  little  nervous  while  she  was  rinsing  some  of 
the  teacups  before  their  removal. 

"  There  is  something  going  on  in  that  witch's  head,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  I  know  her, — she'd  be  savage  now,  if  she 
hadn't  got  any  trick  in  hand.  Let's  see  how  she  looks  to 
morrow  ! " 

Dick  announced  that  he  should  go  to  bed  early  that  even 
ing,  on  account  of  this  confounded  headache  which  had  been 
troubling  him  so  much.  In  fact,  he  went  up  early,  and  locked 
his  door  after  him  with  as  much  noise  as  he  could  make. 
He  then  changed  some  part  of  his  dress,  so  that  it  should  be 
dark  throughout,  slipped  off  his  boots,  drew  the  lasso  out 
from  the  bottom  of  the  contents  of  his  trunk,  and,  carrying 
that  and  his  boots  in  his  hand,  opened  his  door  softly, 
locked  it  after  him,  and  stole  down  the  back-stairs, 
so  as  to  get  out  of  the  house  unnoticed.  He  went 
straight  to  the  stable  and  saddled  the  mustang.  He  took  a 
rope  from  the  stable  with  him,  mounted  his  horse,  and  set 
forth  in  the  direction  of  the  Institute. 

Mr.  Bernard,  as  we  have  seen,  had  not  been  very  pro 
foundly  impressed  by  the  old  Doctor's  cautions, — enough, 
however,  to  follow  out  some  of  his  hints  which  were  not 
troublesome  to  attend  to.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  carry 
ing  a  loaded  pistol  about  with  him;  but  still  it  seemed  only 
fair,  as  the  old  Doctor  thought  so  much  of  the  matter,  to 
humor  him  about  it.  As  for  not  going  about  when  and 
where  he  liked,  for  fear  he  might  have  some  lurking  enemy, 
that  was  a  thing  not  to  be  listened  to  nor  thought  of.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  or  troubled  about  in  any  of 
his  relations  with  the  schoolgirls.  Elsie,  no  doubt,  showed 
a  kind  of  attraction  towards  him,  as  did  perhaps  some 
others;  but  he  had  been  perfectly  discreet,  and  no  father 
or  brother  or  lover  had  any  just  cause  of  quarrel  with  him. 
To  be  sure,  that  dark  young  man  at  the  Dudley  mansion- 


THE    PERILOUS   HOUR.  269 

house  looked  as  if  he  were  his  enemy,  when  he  had  met  him ; 
but  certainly  there  was  nothing  in  their  relations  to  each 
other,  or  in  his  own  to  Elsie,  that  would  be  like  to  stir  such 
malice  in  his  mind  as  would  lead  him  to  play  any  of  his 
wild  Southern  tricks  at  his,  Mr.  Bernard's,  expense.  Yet 
he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  this  young  man  was  dangerous, 
and  he  had  been  given  to  understand  that  one  of  the  risks 
he  ran  was  from  that  quarter. 

On  this  particular  evening,  he  had  a  strange,  unusual 
sense  of  some  impending  peril.  His  recent  interview  with 
the  Doctor,  certain  remarks  which  had  been  dropped  in  his 
hearing,  but  above  all  an  unaccountable  impression  upon 
his  spirits,  all  combined  to  fill  his  mind  with  a  foreboding 
conviction  that  he  was  very  near  some  overshadowing  danger. 
It  was  as  the  chill  of  the  ice-mountain  toward  which  the  ship 
is  steering  under  full  sail.  He  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  see 
Helen  Darley  and  talk  with  her.  She  was  in  the  common 
parlor,  and,  fortunately,  alone. 

"  Helen,"  he  said, — for  they  were  almost  like  brother  and 
sister  now, — "  I  have  been  thinking  what  you  would  do,  if 
I  should  have  to  leave  the  school  at  short  notice,  or  be  taken 
away  suddenly  by  any  accident." 

"  Do  ? "  she  said,  her  cheek  growing  paler  than  its  natural 
delicate  hue, — "why,  I  do  not  know  how  I  could  possibly 
consent  to  live  here,  if  you  left  us.  Since  you  came,  my 
life  has  been  almost  easy;  before,  it  was  getting  intolerable. 
You  must  not  talk  about  going,  my  dear  friend;  you  have 
spoiled  me  for  my  place.  Who  is  there  here  that  I  can 
have  any  true  society  with,  but  you?  You  would  not  leave 
us  for  another  school,  would  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Helen,"  Mr.  Bernard  said ;  "  if  it  de 
pends  on  myself,  I  shall  stay  out  my  full  time,  and  enjoy 
your  company  and  friendship.  But  everything  is  uncertain 
in  this  world.  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  might  be  wanted 
elsewhere,  and  called  when  I  did  not  think  of  it: — it  was  a 
fancy,  perhaps, — but  I  can't  keep  it  out  of  my  mind  this 
evening.  If  any  of  my  fancies  .should  come  true,  Helen, 
there  are  two  or  three  messages  I  want  to  leave  with  you.  I 
have  marked  a  book  or  two  with  a  cross  in  pencil  on  the  fly 
leaf; — these  are  for  you.  There  is  a  little  hymn-book  I 
should  like  to  have  you  give  to  Elsie  from  me; — it  may  be 
a  kind  of  comfort  to  the  poor  girl," 


270  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

Helen's  eyes  glistened  as  she  interrupted  him, — 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  must  not  talk  so,  Mr.  Lang- 
don.  Why,  you  never  looked  better  in  your  life.  Tell  me 
now,  you  are  not  in  earnest,  are  you,  but  only  trying  a  little 
sentiment  on  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Bernard  smiled,  but  rather  sadly. 

"  About  half  in  earnest,"  he  said.  "  I  have  had  some  fan 
cies  in  my  head, — superstitions,  I  suppose, — at  any  rate, 
it  does  no  harm  to  tell  you  what  I  should  like  to  have  done, 
if  anything  should  happen, — very  likely  nothing  ever  will. 
Send  the  rest  of  the  books  home,  if  you  please,  and  write 
a  letter  to  my  mother.  And,  Helen,  you  will  find  one  small 
volume  in  my  desk  enveloped  and  directed,  you  will  see  to 
whom ; — give  this  with  your  own  hands ;  it  is  av  keepsake." 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes;  she  could  not  speak  at 
first.  Presently, — 

"  Why,  Bernard,  my  dear  friend,  my  brother,  it  cannot  be 
that  you  are  in  danger  ?  Tell  me  what  it  is,  and,  if  I  can 
share  it  with  you,  or  counsel  you  in  any  way,  it  will  only  be 
paying  back  the  great  debt  I  owe  you.  'No,  no, — it  can't  be 
true, — you  are  tired  and  worried,  and  your  spirits  have  got 
depressed.  I  know  what  that  is; — I  was  sure,  one  winter, 
that  I  should  die  before  spring ;  but  I  lived  to  see  the  dande 
lions  and  buttercups  go  to  seed.  Come,  tell  me  it  was  noth 
ing  but  your  imagination. 

She  felt  a  tear  upon  her  cheek,  but  would  not  turn  her 
face  away  from  him;  it  was  the  tear  of  a  sister. 

*'  I  am  really  in  earnest,  Helen,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
that  there  is  the  least  reason  in  the  world  for  these  fancies. 
If  they  all  go  off  and  nothing  comes  of  them,  you  may  laugh 
at  me,  if  you  like.  But  if  there  should  be  any  occasion,  re 
member  my  requests.  You  don't  believe  in  presentiments,  do 
you?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  I  beg  you,"  Helen  answered.  "  I  have 
had  a  good  many  frights  for  every  one  real  misfortune  I 
have  suffered.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  I  was  warned  be 
forehand  of  coming  trouble,  just  as  many  people  are  of 
changes  in  the  weather,  by  some  unaccountable  feeling, — but 
not  often,  and  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  such  things.  I 
wouldn't  think  about  these  fancies  of  yours.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  exercised  enough; — but  don't  you  think  it's  con 
finement  in  the  school  has  made  you  nervous  ?  " 


THE   PERILOUS    HOUK.  271 

"  Perhaps  it  has ;  but  it  happens  that  I  have  thought  more 
of  exercise  lately,  and  have  taken  regular  evening  walks, 
besides  playing  my  old  gymnastic  tricks  every  day." 

They  talked  on  many  subjects,  but  through  all  he  said 
Helen  perceived  a  pervading  tone  of  sadness,  and  an  ex 
pression  as  of  a  dreamy  foreboding  of  unknown  evil.  They 
parted  at  the  usual  hour,  and  went  to  their  several  rooms. 
The  sadness  of  Mr.  Bernard  had  sunk  into  the  heart  of 
Helen,  and  she  mingled  many  tears  with  her  prayers  that 
evening,  earnestly  entreating  that  he  might  be  comforted 
in  his  days  of  trial  and  protected  in  his  hour  of  danger. 

Mr.  Bernard  stayed  in  his  room  a  short  time  before  setting 
out  for  his  evening  walk.  His  eye  fell  upon  the  Bible  his 
mother  had  given  him  when  he  left  home,  and  he  opened  it 
in  the  New  Testament  at  a  venture.  It  happened  that  the 
first  words  he  read  were  these, — "  Lest,  coming  suddenly, 
he  find  you  sleeping."  In  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  was 
at  the  moment,  the  text  startled  him.  It  was  like  a  super 
natural  warning.  He  was  not  going  to  expose  himself  to 
any  particular  danger  this  evening;  a  walk  in  a  quiet  village 
was  as  free  from  risk  as  Helen  Darley  or  his  own  mother 
could  ask;  yet  he  had  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  appre 
hension,  without  any  definite  object.  At  this  moment  he 
remembered  the  old  Doctor's  counsel,  which  he  had  some 
times  neglected,  and,  blushing  at  the  feeling  which  led  him 
to  do  it,  he  took  the  pistol  his  suspicious  old  friend  had 
forced  upon  him,  which  he  had  put  away  loaded,  and,  thrust 
ing  it  into  his  pocket,  set  out  upon  his  walk. 

The  moon  was  shining  at  intervals,  for  the  night  was  par 
tially  clouded.  There  seemed  to  be  nobody  stirring,  though 
his  attention  was  unusually  awake,  and  he  could  hear  the 
whir  of  the  bats  overhead,  and  the  pulsating  croak  of  the 
frogs  in  the  distant  pools  and  marshes.  Presently  he  de 
tected  the  sound  of  hoofs  at  some  distance,  and,  looking 
forward,  saw  a  horseman  coming  in  his  direction.  The 
moon  was  under  a  cloud  at  the  moment,  and  he  could  only 
observe  that  the  horse  and  his  rider  looked  like  a  single  dark 
object,  and  that  they  were  moving  along  at  an  easy  pace. 
Mr.  Bernard  was  really  ashamed  of  himself,  when  he  found 
his  hand  on  the  butt  of  his  pistol.  When  the  horseman  was 
within  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  him,  the  moon  shone 
out  suddenly  and  revealed  each  of  them  to  the  other.  The 


272  ELSIE   VENNER. 

rider  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  carefully  surveying  the 
pedestrian,  then  suddenly  put  his  horse  to  the  full  gallop, 
and  dashed  towards  him,  rising  at  the  same  instant  in  his 
stirrups  and  swinging  something  round  his  head, — what,  Mr. 
Bernard  could  not  make  out.  It  was  a  strange  maneuver, — 
so  strange  and  threatening  in  aspect  that  the  young  man 
forgot  his  nervousness  in  an  instant,  cocked  his  pistol,  and 
waited  to  see  what  mischief  all  this  meant.  He  did  not 
wait  long.  As  the  rider  came  rushing  towards  him,  he  made 
a  rapid  motion  and  something  leaped  five-and-twenty  feet 
through  the  air,  in  Mr.  Bernard's  direction.  In  an  instant 
he  felt  a  ring,  as  of  a  rope  or  thong,  settle  upon  his  shoul 
ders.  There  was  no  time  to  think, — he  would  be  lost  in 
another  second.  He  raised  his  pistol  and  fired, — not  at  the 
rider,  but  at  the  horse.  His  aim  was  true;  the  mustang 
gave  one  bound  and  fell  lifeless,  shot  through  the  head.  The 
lasso  was  fastened  to  his  saddle,  and  his  last  bound  threw 
Mr.  Bernard  violently  to  the  earth,  where  he  lay  motionless, 
as  if  stunned. 

In  the  meantime,  Dick  Venner,  who  had  been  dashed  down 
with  his  horse,  was  trying  to  extricate  himself, — one  of  his 
legs  being  held  fast  under  the  animal,  the  long  spur  on  his 
boot  having  caught  in  the  saddle-cloth.  He  found,  however, 
that  he  could  do  nothing  with  his  right  arm,  his  shoulder 
having  been  in  some  way  injured  in  his  fall.  But  his  South 
ern  blood  was  up,  and.  as  he  saw  Mr.  Bernard  move  as  if  he 
were  coming  to  his  senses,  he  struggled  violently  to  free 
himself. 

"  I'll  have  the  dog,  yet,"  he  said, — "  only  let  me  get  at 
him  with  the  knife !  " 

He  had  just  succeeded  in  extricating  his  imprisoned  leg, 
and  was  ready  to  spring  to  his  feet,  when  he  was  caught 
firmly  by  the  throat,  and,  looking  up,  saw  a  clumsy  barbed 
weapon,  commonly  known  as  a  hay-fork,  within  an  inch  of 
his  breast. 

"  Hold  on  there !  What  'n  thunder  V  y'  abaout,  y'  darned 
Portagee  ? "  said  a  voice,  with  a  decided  nasal  tone  in  it, 
but  sharp  and  resolute. 

Dick  looked  from  the  weapon  to  the  person  who  held  it, 
and  saw  a  sturdy,  plain  man  standing  over  him,  with  his 
teeth  clinched,  and  his  aspect  that  of  one  all  ready  for 
mischief, 


THE   PERILOUS   HOUE.  273 

"  Lay  still,  naow !  "  said  Abel  Stebbins,  the  Doctor's  man ; 
"  'f  y'  don't,  I'll  stick  ye,  'z  sure  ?z  y'  V  alive !  I  been  aaf  ter 
ye  f'r  a  week,  'n'  I  got  y'  naow!  I  knowed  I'd  ketch  ye  at 
some  darned  trick  or  'nother  'fore  I'd  done  'ith  ye ! " 

Dick  lay  perfectly  still,  feeling  that  he  was  crippled  and 
helpless,  thinking  all  the  time  with  the  Yankee  half  of  his 
mind  what  to  do  about  it.  He  saw  Mr.  Bernard  lift  his 
head  and  look  around  him.  He  would  get  his  senses  again 
in  a  few  minutes,  very  probably,  and  then  he,  Mr.  Richard 
Venner,  would  be  done  for. 

"  Let  me  up !  let  me  up ! "  he  cried,  in  a  low  hurried 
voice, — "  I'll  give  you  a  hundred  dollars  in  gold  to  let  me 
go.  The  man  a'n't  hurt, — don't  you  see  him  stirring  ?  He'll 
come  to  himself  in  two  minutes.  Let  me  up !  I'll  give  you 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  gold,  now,  here  on  the  spot, — 
and  the  watch  out  of  my  pocket, — take  it  yourself,  with  your 
own  hands !  " 

"I'll  see  y'  darned  fust!  Ketch  me  lett'n'  go!"  was 
Abel's  emphatic  answer.  "  Yeou  lay  still,  'n'  wait  t'll  that 
man  comes  tew." 

He  kept  the  hay-fork  ready  for  action  at  the  slightest  sign 
of  resistance. 

Mr.  Bernard,  in  the  meantime,  had  been  getting,  first  his 
senses,  and  then  some  few  of  his  scattered  wits,  a  little  to 
gether. 

"What  is  it?"— he  said.  "Who's  hurt?  What's  hap 
pened  ? " 

"  Come  along  here  'z  quick  'z  y'  ken,"  Abel  answered,  "  'n' 
haalp  me  fix  this  fellah.  Y'  been  hurt,  y'rself,  'n'  the'  's 
murder  come  pooty  nigh  happenin'." 

Mr.  Bernard  heard  the  answer,  but  presently  stared  about 
and  asked  again,  "  Who's  hurt  ?  What's  happened  ?  " 

"  Y'  r'  hurt,  y'rself,  I  tell  ye,"  said  Abel;  "V  the'  's  been 
a  murder,  pooty  nigh." 

Mr.  Bernard  felt  something  about  his  neck,  and,  putting 
his  hands  up,  found  the  loop  of  the  lasso,  which  he  loosened, 
but  did  not  think  to  slip  over  his  head,  in  the  confusion  of 
his  perceptions  and  thoughts.  It  was  a  wonder  that  it  had 
not  choked  him,  but  he  had  fallen  forward  so  as  to  slacken  it. 

By  this  time  he  was  getting  some  notion  of  what  he  was 
about,  and  presently  began  looking  round  for  his  pistol, 
•which  had  fallen.  He  found  it  lying  near  him,  cocked  it 


4  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

mechanically,  and  walked,  somewhat  unsteadily,  towards  the 
two  men,  who  were  keeping  their  position  as  still  as  if 
they  were  performing  in  a  tableau. 

"  Quick,  naow !  "  said  Abel,  who  had  heard  the  click  of 
cocking  the  pistol,  and  saw  that  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  as 
he  came  towards  him.  "  Gi'  me  that  pistil,  and  yeou  fetch 
that  'ere  rope  layin'  there.  I'll  have  this  here  fellah  fixed 
'n  less  'n  two  minutes." 

Mr.  Bernard  did  as  Abel  said, — stupidly  and  mechanically, 
for  he  was  but  half  right  as  yet.  Abel  pointed  the  pistol  at 
Dick's  head. 

"  Naow  hold  up  y'r  hands,  yeou  fellah,"  he  said,  "  'n'  keep 
'em  up,  while  this  man  puts  the  rope  raound  y'r  wrists." 

Dick  felt  himself  helpless,  and,  rather  than  have  his  dis 
abled  arm  roughly  dealt  with,  held  up  his  hands.  Mr.  Ber 
nard  did  as  Abel  said ;  he  was  in  a  purely  passive  state,  and 
obeyed  orders  like  a  child.  Abel  then  secured  the  rope  in 
a  most  thorough  and  satisfactory  complication  of  twists  and 
knots. 

"  Naow  get  up,  will  ye  ? "  he  said ;  and  the  unfortunate 
Dick  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Who's  hurt?  What's  happened?"  asked  poor  Mr.  Ber 
nard  again,  his  memory  having  been  completely  jarred  out 
of  him  for  the  time. 

"  Come,  look  here  naow,  yeou,  don'  stan'  aaskin  questions 
over  'n'  over ; — 't  beats  all !  ha'n't  I  tol'  y'  a  dozen  times  ?  " 

As  Abel  spoke,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Mr.  Bernard. 

"Hullo!  What  'n  thunder's  that  'ere  raoun'  y'r  neck? 
Ketched  ye  'ith  a  slippernoose,  hey?  Wai,  if  that  a'n't  the 
craowner!  Hoi'  on  a  minute,  Cap'n,  'n'  I'll  show  ye  what 
that  'ere  halter's  good  for." 

Abel  slipped  the  noose  over  Mr.  Bernard's  head,  and  put 
it  round  the  neck  of  the  miserable  Dick  Venner,  who  made 
no  sign  of  resistance, — whether  on  account  of  the  pain  he 
was  in,  or  from  mere  helplessness,  or  because  he  was  waiting 
for  some  unguarded  moment  to  escape, — since  resistance 
seemed  of  no  use. 

"I'm  goV  to  kerry  y'  home,"  said  Abel;  "  th'  ol'  Doctor, 
he's  got  a  gre't  cur'osity  t'  see  ye.  Jes'  step  along  naow, — 
off  that  way,  will  ye?— 'n'  I'll  hoi'  on  t'  th'  bridle,  f  fear 
y'  sh'd  run  away." 

He  took  hold  of  the  leather  thong,  but  found  that  it  was 


THE    PERILOUS    HOUE.  275 

fastened  at  the  other  end  to  the  saddle.  This  was  too  much 
for  Abel. 

"  Wai,  naow,  yeou  be  a  pooty  chap  to  hev  raound !  A 
fellah's  neck  in  a  slippernoose  at  one  eend  of  a  halter,  'n' 
a  hoss  on  th'  full  spring  at  t'other  eend !  " 

He  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot  as  a  naturalist  in 
spects  a  new  specimen.  His  clothes  had  suffered  in  his  fall, 
especially  on  the  leg  which  had  been  caught  under  the 
horse. 

"  Hullo !  look  o'  there,  naow !  What's  that  ere  stickin' 
aout  o'  y'r  boot  ? " 

It  was  nothing  but  the  handle  of  an  ugly  knife  which 
Abel  instantly  relieved  him  of. 

The  party  now  took  up  the  line  of  march  for  old  Doctor 
Kittredge's  house,  Abel  carrying  the  pistol  and  knife,  and 
Mr.  Bernard  walking  in  silence,  still  half -stunned,  holding 
the  hay-fork,  which  Abel  had  thrust  into  his  hand.  It  was 
all  a  dream  to  him  as  yet.  He  remembered  the  horseman 
riding  at  him,  and  his  firing  the  pistol ;  but  whether  he  was 
alive,  and  these  walls  around  him  belonged  to  the  village  of 
Rockland,  or  whether  he  had  passed  the  dark  river,  and 
was  in  a  suburb  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  he  could  not  as  yet 
have  told. 

They  were  in  the  street  where  the  Doctor's  house  was 
situated. 

"  I  guess  I'll  fire  off  one  o'  these  here  berrils,"  said  Abel. 

He  fired. 

Presently  there  was  a  noise  of  opening  windows,  and  the 
nocturnal  head-dresses  of  Rockland  flowered  out  of  them 
like  so  many  developments  of  the  Night-blooming  Cereus. 
White  cotton  caps  and  red  bandanna  handkerchiefs  were 
the  prevailing  forms  of  efflorescence.  The  main  point  was 
that  the  village  was  waked  up.  The  old  Doctor  always 
waked  easily,  from  long  habit,  and  was  the  first  among  those 
who  looked  out  to  see  what  had  happened. 

"  Why,  Abel !  "  he  called  out,  "  what  have  you  got  there  ? 
and  what's  all  this  noise  about  ?  " 

"  We've  ketched  the  Portagee !  "  Abel  answered,  as  lacon 
ically  as  the  hero  of  Lake  Erie  in  his  famous  dispatch.  "  Go 
in  there,  you  fellah !  " 

The  prisoner  was  marched  into  the  house,  and  the  Doctor, 
who  had  bewitched  his  clothes  upon  him  in  a  way  that  would 


276  ELSIE    VENNER. 

have  been  miraculous  in  anybody  but  a  physician,  was  down 
in  presentable  form  as  soon  as  if  it  had  been  a  child  in  a 
fit  that  he  was  sent  for. 

"  Richard  Venner !  "  the  Doctor  exclaimed.  "  What  is  the 
meaning  of  all  this?  Mr.  Langdon,  has  anything  happened 
to  you  ? " 

Mr.  Bernard  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  My  mind  is  confused,"  he  said.  "  I've  had  a  fall. — Oh, 
yes! — 'wait  a  minute  and  it  will  all  come  back  to  me." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  the  doctor  said.  "  Abel  will  tell 
me  about  it.  Slight  concussion  of  the  brain.  Can't  remem 
ber  very  well  for  an  hour  or  two, — will  come  right  by  to 
morrow." 

"  Been  stunded,"  Abel  said.    "  He  can't  tell  nothin'." 

Abel  then  proceeded  to  give  a  Napoleonic  bulletin  of  the 
recent  combat  of  cavalry  and  infantry  and  its  results, — 
none  slain,  one  captured. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  prisoner  through  his  spectacles. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  shoulder,  Venner  ? " 

Dick  answered  sullenly,  that  he  didn't  know, — fell  on  it 
when  his  horse  came  down.  The  Doctor  examined  it  as  care 
fully  as  he  could  through  his  clothes. 

"  Out  of  joint.     Untie  his  hands,  Abel." 

By  this  time  a  small  alarm  had  spread  among  the  neigh 
bors,  and  there  was  a  circle  around  Dick,  who  glared  about 
on  the  assembled  honest  people  like  a  hawk  with  a  broken 
wing. 

When  the  Doctor  said,  "  Untie  his  hands,"  the  circle 
widened  perceptibly. 

"  Isn't  it  a  leetle  rash  to  give  him  the  use  of  his  hands  ? 
I  see  there's  females  and  children  standiii'  near." 

This  was  the  remark  of  our  old  friend,  Deacon  Soper,  who 
retired  from  the  front  row,  as  he  spoke,  behind  a  respectable- 
looking,  but  somewhat  hastily-dressed  person  of  the  defense 
less  sex,  the  female  help  of  a  neighboring  household,  accom 
panied  by  a  boy,  whose  unsmoothed  shock  of  hair  looked 
like  a  last-year's  crow's-nest. 

But  Abel  untied  his  hands,  in  spite  of  the  Deacon's  con 
siderate  remonstrance. 

"Now,"  said  the  Doctor,  "the  first  thing  is  to  put  the 
joint  back." 

"  Stop,"  said  Deacon  Soper, — "  stop  a  minute.    Don't  you 


PERILOUS   flOTTIi.  277 

think  it  will  be  safer — for  the  women-folks — jest  to  wait  till 
mornin',  afore  you  put  that  j'int  into  the  socket  ?  " 

Colonel  Sprowle,  who  had  been  called  by  a  special  mes 
senger,  spoke  up  at  this  moment. 

"  Let  the  women-folks  and  the  deacons  go  home,  if  they're 
scared,  and  put  the  fellah's  j'int  in  as  quick  as  you  like.  I'll 
resk  him,  j'int  in  or  out." 

"  I  want  one  of  you  to  go  straight  down  to  Dudley  Ven- 
ner's  with  a  message,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  I  will  have  the 
young  man's  shoulder  in  quick  enough." 

"  Don't  send  that  message !  "  said  Dick,  in  a  hoarse  voice ; 
— "  do  what  you  like  with  my  arm,  but  don't  send  that 
message !  Let  me  go, — I  can  walk,  and  I'll  be  off  from  this 
place.  There's  nobody  hurt  but  myself.  Damn  the  shoul 
der  ! — let  me  go !  You  shall  never  hear  of  me  again !  " 

Mr.  Bernard  came  forward. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  injured, — seriously  at 
least.  Nobody  need  complain  against  this  man,  if  I  don't. 
The  Doctor  will  treat  him  like  a  human  being,  at  any  rate ; 
and  then,  if  he  will  go,  let  him.  There  are  too  many  wit 
nesses  against  him  here  for  him  to  want  to  stay." 

The  Doctor,  in  the  meantime,  without  saying  a  word  to 
all  this,  had  got  a  towel  round  the  shoulder  and  chest  and 
another  round  the  arm,  and  had  the  bone  replaced  in  a  very 
few  minutes. 

"Abel,  put  Cassia  into  the  new  chaise,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  My  friends  and  neighbors,  leave  this  young  man  to  me." 

"  Colonel  Sprowle,  you're  a  justice  of  the  peace,"  said  Dea 
con  Soper,  "  and  you  know  what  the  law  says  in  cases  like 
this.  I  a'n't  so  clear  that  it  won't  have  to  come  afore  the 
Grand  Jury,  whether  we  will  or  no." 

"  I  guess  we'll  set  that  j'int  to-morrow  mornin',"  said 
Colonel  Sprowle, — which  made  a  laugh  at  the  Deacon's  ex 
pense,  and  virtually  settled  the  question. 

"  Now  trust  this  young  man  in  my  care,"  said  the  old 
Doctor,  "  and  go  home  and  finish  your  naps.  I  knew  him 
when  he  was  a  boy  and  I'll  answer  for  it,  he  won't  trouble 
you  any  more.  The  Dudley  blood  makes  folks  proud,  I  can 
tell  you,  whatever  else  they  are." 

The  good  people  so  respected  and  believed  in  the  Doctor 
that  they  left  the  prisoner  with  him. 

Presently,  Cassia,  the  fast  Morgan  mare,  came  up  to  the 


278  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

front-door,  with  the  wheels  of  the  new,  light  chaise  flashing 
behind  her  in  the  moonlight.  The  Doctor  drove  Dick  forty 
miles  at  a  stretch  that  night,  out  of  the  limits  of  the 
State. 

"  Do  you  want  money  ? "  he  said,  before  he  left  him. 

Dick  told  him  the  secret  of  his  golden  belt. 

"  Where  shall  I  send  your  trunk  after  you  from  your 
uncle's?" 

Dick  gave  him  a  direction  to  a  seaport  town  to  which  he 
himself  was  going,  to  take  passage  for  a  port  in  South 
America. 

"Good-by,  Kichard,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Try  to  learn 
something  from  to-night's  lesson." 

The  Southern  impulses  in  Dick's  wild  blood  overcame  him, 
and  he  kissed  the  old  Doctor  on  both  cheeks,  crying  as  only 
the  children  of  the  sun  can  cry,  after  the  first  hours  in  the 
dewy  morning  of  life.  So  Dick  Venner  disappears  from  this 
story.  An  hour  after  dawn,  Cassia  pointed  her  fine  ears 
homeward,  and  struck  into  her  square  honest  trot,  as  if 
she  had  not  been  doing  anything  more  than  her  duty  during 
her  few  hours'  stretch  of  the  last  night. 

Abel  was  not  in  the  habit  of  questioning  the  Doctor's 
decisions. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Bernard.  "  The  fellah's 
Squire  Venner's  relation,  anyhaow.  Don't  you  want  to  wait 
here,  jest  a  little  while,  till  I  come  back?  The'  's  a  con- 
sid'able  nice  saddle  'n'  bridle  on  a  dead  hoss  that's  layin' 
daown  there  in  the  road  'n'  I  guess  the'  a'n't  no  use  in 
lettin'  on  'em  spile, — so  I'll  jest  step  aout  'n'  fetch  'em  along. 
I  kind  o'  calc'late  't  won't  pay  to  take  the  cretur's  shoes  'n' 
hide  off  to-night, — 'n'  the'  won't  be  much  iron  on  that  hoss'a 
huffs  an  haour  after  daylight,  I'll  bate  ye  a  quarter." 

"  I'll  walk  along  with  you,"  said  Mr.  ^Bernard ; — "  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  get  along  w7ell  enough  now." 

So  they  set  off  together.  There  was  a  little  crowd  round 
the  dead  mustang  already,  principally  consisting  of  neigh 
bors  who  had  adjourned  from  the  Doctor's  house  to  see  the 
scene  of  the  late  adventure.  In  addition  to  these,  however, 
the  assembly  was  honored  by  the  presence  of  Mr.  Principal 
Silas  Peckhani,  who  had  been  called  from  his  slumbers  by 
a  message  that  Master  Langdon  was  shot  through  the  head 
by  a  highway-robber,  but  had  learned  a  true  version  of  the 


THE   PEEILOUS   HOUR 

story  by  this  time.  His  voice  was  at  that  moment  heard 
above  the  rest, — sharp,  but  thin,  like  bad  cider-vinegar. 

"  I  take  charge  of  that  property,  I  say.  Master  Langdon's 
actin'  under  my  orders,  and  I  claim  that  hoss  and  all  that's 
on  him.  Hiram!  jest  slip  off  that  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
carry  'em  up  to  the  Institoot,  and  bring  down  a  pair  of 
pinchers  and  a  file, — and — stop — fetch  a  pair  of  shears,  too; 
there's  hoss-hair  enough  in  that  mane  and  tail  to  stuff  a 
bolster  with." 

"  You  let  that  hoss  alone ! "  spoke  up  Colonel  Sprowle. 
"When  a  fellah  goes  out  huntin'  and  shoots  a  squirrel,  do 
you  think  he's  go'n'  to  let  another  fellah  pick  him  up  and 
kerry  him  off?  Not  if  he's  got  a  double-berril  gun,  and 
t'other  berril  ha'n't  been  fired  off  yet !  I  should  like  to  see 
the  mahn  that'll  take  off  that  seddle  V  bridle,  excep'  the 
one  th't  hez  a  fair  right  to  the  whole  concern ! " 

Hiram  was  from  one  of  the  lean  streaks  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  and,  not  being  overfed  in  Mr.  Silas  Peckham's  kitchen,, 
was  somewhat  wanting  in  stamina,  as  well  as  in  stomach,  for 
so  doubtful  an  enterprise  as  undertaking  to  carry  out  his 
employer's  orders  in  the  face  of  the  Colonel's  defiance. 

Just  then  Mr.  Bernard  and  Abel  came  up  together. 

"  Here  they  be,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  Stan'  beck,  gentle 
men!" 

Mr.  Bernard,  who  was  pale  and  still  a  little  confused,  but 
gradually  becoming  more  like  himself,  stood  and  looked  in 
silence  for  a  moment. 

All  his  thoughts  seemed  to  be  clearing  themselves  in  this 
interval.  He  took  in  the  whole  series  of  incidents :  his  own 
frightful  risk;  the  strange,  instinctive,  nay,  Providential 
impulse  which  had  led  him  so  suddenly  to  do  the  one  only 
thing  which  could  possibly  have  saved  him;  the  sudden  ap 
pearance  of  the  Doctor's  man,  but  for  which  he  might  yet 
have  been  lost;  and  the  discomfiture  and  capture  of  his  dan 
gerous  enemy. 

It  was  all  past  now,  and  a  feeling  of  pity  rose  in  Mr. 
Bernard's  heart. 

"  He  loved  that  horse,  no  doubt,"  he  said, — "  and  no  won 
der.  A  beautiful,  wild-looking  creature!  Take  off  those 
things  that  are  on  him,  Abel,  and  have  them  carried  to  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner's.  If  he  does  not  want  them,  you  may  keep 
them  yourself,  for  all  that  I  have  to  say.  One  thing  more. 


280  ELSIE   VENNER. 

I  hope  nobody  will  lift  his  hand  against  this  noble  creature 
to  mutilate  him  in  any  way.  After  you  have  taken  off  the 
saddle  and  bridle,  Abel,  bury  him  just  as  he  is.  Under  that 
old  beech-tree  will  be  a  good  place.  You'll  see  to  it, — won't 
you,  Abel?" 

Abel  nodded  assent,  and  Mr.  Bernard  returned  to  the 
Institute,  threw  himself  in  his  clothes  on  the  bed,  and  slept 
like  one  who  is  heavy  with  wine. 

Following  Mr.  Bernard's  wishes,  Abel  at  once  took  off  the 
high-peaked  saddle  and  the  richly  ornamented  bridle  from 
the  mustang.  Then,  with  the  aid  of  two  or  three  others,  he 
removed  him  to  the  place  indicated.  Spades  and  shovels 
were  soon  procured,  and  before  the  moon  had  set,  the  wild 
horse  of  the  Pampas  was  at  rest  under  the  turf  at  the  way 
side,  in  the  far  village  among  the  hills  of  New  England. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    NEWS    REACHES    THE    DUDLEY    MANSION. 

Early  the  next  morning  Abel  Stebbins  made  his  appearance 
at  Dudley  Venner's,  and  requested  to  see  the  maan  o'  the 
haouse  abaout  somethin'  o'  consequence.  Mr.  Venner  sent 
word  that  the  messenger  should  wait  below,  and  presently 
appeared  in  the  study,  where  Abel  was  making  himself  at 
home,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  republican  citizen,  when  he  hides 
the  purple  of  empire  beneath  the  apron  of  domestic  service. 

"  Good  mornin',  Squire!"  said  Abel,  as  Mr.  Venner 
entered.  "  My  name's  Stebbins,  'n'  I'm  stoppin'  f'r  a  spell 
'ith  ol'  Doctor  Kittredge." 

"  Well,  Stebbins,"  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  "  have  you 
brought  any  special  message  from  the  Doctor  ? " 

"  Y'  ha'n't  heerd  nothin'  abaout  it,  Squire,  d'  ye  mean  t' 
say  ? "  said  Abel, — beginning  to  suspect  that  he  was  the  first 
to  bring  the  news  of  last  evening's  events. 

"  About  what  ? "  asked  Mr.  Venner,  with  some  interest. 

"Dew  tell,  naow!  Waal,  that  beats  all!  Why  that  'ere 
Portagee  relation  o'  yourn  'z  been  tryin'  t'  ketch  a  fellah  'n  a 
slippernoose,  'n'  got  ketched  himself, — that's  all.  Y'  ha'n't 
heerd  noth'n'  abaout  it  ?  " 

"Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  calmly,  "and  tell 
me  all  you  have  to  say." 

So  Abel  sat  down  and  gave  him  an  account  of  the  events 
of  the  last  evening.  It  was  a  strange  and  terrible  surprise 
to  Dudley  Venner  to  find  that  his  nephew,  who  had  been  an 
inmate  of  his  house  and  the  companion  of  his  daughter,  was 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  guilty  of  the  gravest  of  crimes. 
But  the  first  shock  was  so  sooner  over  than  he  began  to  think 
what  effect  the  news  would  have  on  Elsie.  He  imagined  that 
there  was  a  kind  of  friendly  feeling  between  them,  and  he 
feared  some  crisis  would  be  provoked  in  his  daughter's  mental 
condition  by  the  discovery.  He  would  wait,  however,  until 
she  came  from  her  chamber,  before  disturbing  her  with  the 
evil  tidings. 


282  ELSIE    VEKNER. 

Abel  did  not  forget  his  message  with  reference  to  the 
equipments  of  the  dead  mustang. 

"  The'  was  some  things  on  the  hoss,  Squire,  that  the  man 
he  ketched  said  he  didn'  care  no  gre't  abaout;  but  perhaps 
you'd  like  to  have  'em  fetched  to  the  mansion-haouse.  Ef  y' 
didn'  care  abaout  'em,  though,  I  shouldn'  min'  keepin'  on  'em ; 
they  might  come  handy  sometime  or  'nother:  they  say,  holt 
on  t'  anything  for  ten  year  'n'  there'll  be  some  kin'  o'  use  for 
V 

"Keep  everything,"  said  Dudley  Venner.  "I  don't  want 
to  see  anything  belonging  to  that  young  man." 

So  Abel  nodded  to  Mr.  Venner,  and  left  the  study  to  find 
some  of  the  men  about  the  stable  to  tell  and  talk  over  with 
them  the  events  of  the  last  evening.  He  presently  came 
upon  Elbridge,  chief  of  the  equine  department,  and  driver  of 
the  family-coach. 

"  Good  mornin',  Abe,"  said  Elbridge.  "  What's  fetched  y' 
daown  here  so  all-fired  airly  ? " 

"  You're  a  darned  pooty  lot  daown  here,  you  be !  "  Abel 
answered.  "  Better  keep  your  Portagees  t'  home  nex'  time, 
ketchin'  folks  'ith  slipper-nooses  raoun'  their  necks,  'n' 
kerryin'  knives  'n  their  boots !  " 

"What  V  you  jawin'  abaout?"  Elbridge  said,  looking  up 
to  see  if  he  was  in  earnest,  and  what  he  meant. 

"  Jawin'  abaout  ?  You'll  find  aout  'z  soon  'z  y'  go  into 
that  'ere  stable  o'  yourn!  Y'  won't  curry  that  'ere  long- 
tailed  black  hoss  no  more;  'n'  y'  won't  set  y'r  eyes  on  the 
fellah  that  rid  him,  ag'in,  in  a  hurry !  " 

Elbridge  walked  straight  to  the  stable,  without  saying  a 
word,  found  the  door  unlocked,  and  went  in.  . 

"  Th'  critter's  gone,  sure  enough !  "  he  said.  "  Glad  on 
't!  The  darndest,  kickin'est,  bitin'est  beast  th't  ever  I  see. 
}T  ever  wan'  t'  see  ag'in!  Good  reddance!  Don'  wan'  no 
snappin'-turkles  in  my  stable!  Whar's  the  man  gone  th't 
brought  the  critter  ?  " 

"  Whar  he's  gone  ?  Guess  y'  better  go  'n  aiisk  my  ol'  man ; 
he  kerried  him  off  laas'  night ;  'n'  when  he  comes  back,  mebbe 
he'll  tell  ye  whar  he's  gone  tew !  " 

By  this  time  Elbridge  had  found  out  that  Abel  was  in 
earnest,  and  had  something  to  tell.  He  looked  at  the  litter 
in  the  mustang's  stall,  then  at  the  crib. 

"  Ha'n't  eat  b't  haalf  his  feed.    Ha'n't  been  daown  on  his 


THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION.   283 

straw.  Must  ha'  been  took  out  somewhere  abaout  ten  'r  'leven 
o'clock.  I  know  that  'ere  critter's  ways.  The  fellah's  had  him 
aout  nights  afore ;  b't  I  never  thought  nothin'  o'  no  mischief. 
He's  a  kin'  o'  haiilf  Injin.  What  is  't  the  chap  's  been  a-doin' 
on?  Tell  's  all  abaout  it." 

Abel  sat  down  on  a  meal-chest,  picked  up  a  straw,  and  put 
it  into  his  mouth.  Elbridge  sat  down  at  the  other  end,  pulled 
out  his  jack-knife, opened  the  penknife  blade,  and  began  stick 
ing  it  into  the  lid  of  the  meal-chest.  The  Doctor's  man  had 
a  story  to  tell,  and  he  meant  to  get  all  the  enjoyment  out  of 
it.  So  he  told  it  with  every  luxury  of  circumstance.  Mr. 
Venner's  man  heard  it  all  with  open  mouth.  No  listener  in 
the  gardens  of  Stamboul  could  have  found  more  rapture  in  a 
tale  heard  amidst  the  perfume  of  roses,  and  the  voices  of 
birds  and  tinkling  of  fountains  than  Elbridge  in  following 
Abel's  narrative,  as  they  sat  there  in  the  aromatic  ammoniacal 
atmosphere  of  the  stable,  the  grinding  of  the  horses'  jaws 
keeping  evenly  on  through  it  all,  with  now  and  then  the  in 
terruption  of  a  stamping  hoof,  and  at  intervals  a  ringing  crow 
from  the  barn-yard. 

Elbridge  stopped  a  minute  to  think,  after  Abel  had  fin 
ished. 

"  Who's  took  care  o'  them  things  that  was  on  the  hoss  ? "  he 
said,  gravely. 

"  Waal,  Langdon,  he  seemed  to  kin'  o'  think  I'd  ought  to 
have  'em, — 'n'  the  Squire,  he  didn'  seem  to  have  no  'bjection; 
'n'  so, — waal,  I  calc'late  I  sh'll  jes'  holt  on  to  'em  myself;  they 
a'n't  good  f'r  much,  but  they're  cur'ous  t'  keep  t'  look  at." 

Mr.  Venner's  man  did  not  appear  much  gratified  by  this 
arrangement,  especially  as  he  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that 
some  of  the  ornaments  of  the  bridle  were  of  precious  metal, 
having  made  occasional  examinations  of  them  with  the  edge  of 
a  file.  But  he  did  not  see  exactly  what  to  do  about  it,  except 
to  get  them  from  Abel  in  the  way  of  bargain. 

"  Waal,  no, — they  a'n't  good  for  much  'xcep'  to  look  at. 
'F  y'  ever  rid  on  that  seddle  once,  'y  wouldn'  try  it  ag'in,  very 
spry, — not  'f  y'  c'd  haalp  y'saalf.  I  tried  it, — darned  'f  I  sot 
daown  f'r  th'  nex'  week, — eat  all  my  victuals  stan'in'.  I  sh'd 
like  to  hev  them  things  wal  enough  to  heng  up  'n  the  stable; 
'f  y'  want  t'  trade  some  day,  fetch  'em  along  daown." 

Abel  rather  expected  that  Elbridge  would  have  laid  claim 
to  the  saddle  and  bridle  on  the  strength  of  some  promise  or 


284  ELSTE 

other  presumptive  title,  and  thought  himself  lucky  to  get  off 
with  only  offering  to  think  abaout  tradin'. 

When  Elbridge  returned  to  the  house,  he  found  the  family 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  Mr.  Venner  had  told  Old 
Sophy,  and  she  had  informed  the  other  servants.  Every 
body  knew  what  had  happened,  excepting  Elsie.  Her 
father  had  charged  them  all  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  her; 
he  would  tell  her,  when  she  came  down. 

He  heard  her  step  at  last, — a  light,  gliding  step, — so  light 
that  her  coming  was  often  unheard,  except  by  those  who  per 
ceived  the  faint  rustle  that  went  with  it.  She  was  paler  than 
common  this  morning,  as  she  came  into  her  father's  study. 

After  a  few  words  of  salutation,  he  said  quietly, — 

"  Elsie,  my  dear,  your  cousin  Richard  has  left  us." 

She  grew  still  paler,  as  she  asked, — 

"Is  he  dead?" 

Dudley  Venner  started  to  see  the  expression  with  which 
Elsie  put  this  question. 

"  He  is  living, — but  dead  to  us  from  this  day  forward," 
said  her  father. 

He  proceeded  to  tell  her,  in  a  general  way,  the  story  he 
had  just  hear  from  Abel.  There  could  be  no  doubting  it;— 
he  remembered  him  as  the  Doctor's  man;  and  as  Abel  had 
seen  all  with  his  own  eyes, — as  Dick's  chamber,  when  unlocked 
with  a  spare  key,  was  found  empty,  and  his  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in,  he  accepted  the  whole  account  as  true. 

When  he  told  of  Dick's  atttempt  on  the  young  school 
master,  ("  You  know  Mr.  Langdon  very  well,  Elsie, — a  per 
fectly  inoffensive  young  man,  as  I  understand,")  Elsie 
turned  her  face  away  and  slid  along  by  the  wall  to  the  win 
dow  which  looked  out  on  tne  little  grass-plot  with  the  white 
stone  standing  in  it.  Her  father  could  not  see  her  face,  but 
he  knew  by  her  movements  that  her  dangerous  mood  was  on 
her.  When  she  heard  the  sequel  of  the  story,  the  discomfiture 
and  capture  of  Dick,  she  turned  around  for  an  instant  with 
a  look  of  contempt  and  of  something  like  triumph  on  her 
face.  Her  father  saw  that  her  cousin  had  become  odious  to 
her.  He  knew  well  by  every  change  of  her  countenance,  by 
her  movements,  by  every  varying  curve  of  her  graceful  figure, 
the  transitions  from  passion  to  repose,  from  fierce  excitement 
to  the  dull  languor  which  often  succeeded  her  threatening 
paroxysms. 


THE   NEWS    REACHES   THE    DUDLEY   MANSION.       285 

She  remained  looking  out  at  the  window.  A  group  of  white 
fan-tailed  pigeons  had  lighted  on  the  green  plot  before  it  and 
clustered  about  one  of  their  companions  who  lay  on  his  back, 
fluttering  in  a  strange  way,  with  outspread  wings  and 
twitching  feet.  Elsie  uttered  a  faint  cry;  these  were  her 
special  favorites,  and  often  fed  from  her  hand.  She  threw 
open  the  long  window,  sprang  out,  caught  up  the  white  fan- 
tail,  and  held  it  to  her  bosom.  The  bird  stretched  itself  out 
and  then  lay  still,  with  open  eyes,  lifeless.  She  looked  at  him 
a  moment,  and  sliding  in  through  the  open  window  and 
through  the  study,  sought  her  own  apartment,  where  she 
locked  herself  in,  and  began  to  sob  and  moan  like  those  that 
weep.  But  the  gracious  solace  of  tears  seemed  to  be  denied 
her,  and  her  grief,  like  her  anger,  was  a  dull  ache,  longing, 
like  that,  to  finish  itself  with  a  fierce  paroxysm,  but  wanting 
its  natural  outlet. 

This  seemingly  trifling  incident  of  the  death  of  her  favor 
ite  appeared  to  change  all  the  current  of  her  thought. 
Whether  it  was  the  sight  of  the  dying  bird,  or  the  thought  that 
her  own  agency  might  have  been  concerned  in  it,  or  some 
deeper  grief,  which  took  this  occasion  to  declare  itself, — some 
dark  remorse  or  hopeless  longing, — whatever  it  might  be, 
there  was  an  unwonted  tumult  in  her  soul.  To  whom  should 
she  go  in  her  vague  misery  ?  Only  to  Him  who  knows  all  His 
creatures'  sorrows,  and  listens  to  the  faintest  human  cry. 
She  knelt,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  kneel  from  her  childhood, 
and  tried  to  pray,  but  her  thoughts  refused  to  flow  in  the  lan 
guage  of  supplication.  She  could  not  plead  for  herself  as 
other  women  plead  in  their  hours  of  anguish.  She  rose  like 
one  who  should  stoop  to  drink,  and  find  dust  in  the  place  of 
water.  Partly  from  restlessness,  partly  from  an  attraction 
she  hardly  avowed  to  herself,  she  followed  her  usual  habit  and 
strolled  listlessly  along  to  the  school. 

Of  course  everybody  in  the  Institute  was  full  of  the  terri 
ble  adventure  of  the  preceding  evening.  Mr.  Bernard  felt 
poorly  enough;  but  he  had  made  it  a  point  to  show  himself 
the  next  morning,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Helen  Darley 
knew  nothing  of  it  all  until  she  had  risen,  when  the  gossipy 
matron  of  the  establishment  made  her  acquainted-  with  all  its 
details,  embellished  with  such  additional  ornamental  append 
ages  as  it  had  caught  up  in  transmission  from  lip  to  lip.  She 


286  ELSIE   VENKER. 

did  not  love  to  betray  her  sensibilities,  but  she  was  pale  and 
tremulous,  and  very  nearly  tearful  when  Mr.  Bernard  entered 
the  sitting-room,  showing  on  his  features  traces  of  the  violent 
shock  he  had  received  and  the  heavy  slumber  from  which  he 
had  risen  with  throbbing  brows.  What  the  poor  girl's  im 
pulse  was,  on  seeing  him,  we  need  not  inquire  too  curiously. 
If  he  had  been  her  own  brother  she  would  have  kissed  him  and 
cried  on  his  neck ;  but  something  held  her  back.  There  is  no 
galvanism  in  kiss-your-brother ;  it  is  copper  against  copper; 
Tmt  alien  bloods  develop  strange  currents,  when  they  flow  close 
to  each  other,  with  only  the  films  that  cover  lip  and  cheek  be 
tween  them.  Mr.  Bernard,  as  some  of  us  may  remember,  vio 
lated  the  proprieties  and  laid  himself  open  to  reproach  by  his 
enterprise  with  a  bouncing  village  girl,  to  whose  rosy  cheek  an 
honest  smack  was  not  probably  an  absolute  novelty.  He  made 
it  all  up  by  his  discretion  and  good  behavior  now.  He  saw 
by  Helen's  moist  eye  and  trembling  lip  that  her  woman's 
heart  was  off  its  guard,  and  he  knew,  by  the  infallible  instinct 
of  sex,  that  he  should  be  forgiven,  if  he  thanked  her  for  her 
sisterly  sympathies  in  the  most  natural  way, — expressive,  and 
at  the  same  time  economical  of  breath  and  utterance.  He 
would  not  give  a  false  look  to  their  friendship  by  any  such 
demonstration.  Helen  was  a  little  older  than  himself,  but  the 
aureole  of  young  womanhood  had  not  yet  begun  to  fade  from 
'around  her.  She  was  surrounded  by  that  enchanted  atmos 
phere  into  which  the  girl  walks  with  dreamy  eyes,  and  out  of 
which  the  woman  passes  with  a  story  written  on  her  forehead. 
Some  people  think  very  little  of  these  refinements ;  they  have 
not  studied  magnetism  and  the  law  of  the  square  of  the  dis 
tance. 

So  Mr.  Bernard  thanked  Helen  for  her  interest  without  the 
aid  of  the  twenty-seventh  letter  of  the  alphabet, — the  love 
labial, — the  limping  consonant  which  it  takes  two  to  speak 
plain.  Indeed,  he  scarcely  let  her  say  a  word,  at  first ;  for  he 
saw  that  it  was  hard  for  her  to  conceal  her  emotion.  No 
wonder;  he  had  come  within  ahairVbreadth  of  losing  his  life, 
and  he  had  been  a  very  kind  friend  and  a  very  dear  com 
panion  to  her. 

There  were  some  curious  spiritual  experiences  connected 
with  his  last  evening's  adventure  which  were  working  very 
strongly  in  his  mind.  It  was  borne  in  upon  him  very  irre 
sistibly  that  he  had  been  dead  since  he  had  seen  Helen, — as 


THE    NEWS    REACHES   THE    DUDLEY   MANSION.       287 

dead  as  the  son  of  the  Widow  of  Nain  before  the  bier  was 
touched,  and  he  sat  up  and  began  to  speak.  There  was  an  in 
terval  between  two  conscious  moments  which  appeared  to 
him  like  a  temporary  annihilation,  and  the  thoughts  it  sug 
gested  were  worrying  him  with  strange  perplexities. 

He  remembered  seeing  the  dark  figure  on  horseback  rise 
in  the  saddle  and  something  leap  from  its  hand.  He  remem 
bered  the  thrill  he  felt  as  the  coil  settled  on  his  shoulders,  and 
the  sudden  impulse  which  led  him  to  fire  as  he  did.  With  the 
report  of  the  pistol  all  became  blank,  until  he  found  himself 
in  a  strange,  bewildered  state,  groping  about  for  the  weapon, 
which  he  had  a  vague  consciousness  of  having  dropped.  But, 
according  to  Abel's  account,  there  must  have  been  an  interval 
of  some  minutes  between  these  recollections,  and  he  could 
not  help  asking,  Where  was  the  mind,  the  soul,  the  think 
ing  principle,  all  this  time? 

A  man  is  stunned  by  a  blow  with  a  stick  on  the  head.  He 
becomes  unconscious.  Another  man  gets  a  harder  blow  on  the 
head  from  a  bigger  stick,  and  it  kills  him.  Does  he  become 
unconscious,  too  ?  If  so,  when  does  he  come  to  his  conscious 
ness  ?  The  man  who  has  had  a  slight  or  moderate  blow  comes 
to  himself  when  the  immediate  shock  passes  off  and  the  organs 
begin  to  work  again,  or  when  a  bit  of  the  skull  is  pried  up,  if 
that  happens  to  be  broken.  Suppose  the  blow  is  hard  enough 
to  spoil  the  brain  and  stop  the  play  of  the  organs,  what  hap 
pens  then? 

A  British  captain  was  struck  by  a  cannon-ball  on  the 
head,  just  as  he  was  giving  an  order,  at  the  Battle  of  the 
Nile.  Fifteen  months  afterwards  he  was  trephined  at  Green 
wich  Hospital,  having  been  insensible  all  that  time.  Imme 
diately  after  the  operation,  his  consciousness  returned,  and 
he  at  once  began  carrying  out  the  order  he  was  giving  when 
the  shot  struck  him.  Suppose  he  had  never  been  trephined, 
when  would  his  consciousness  have  returned?  When  his 
breath  ceased  and  his  heart  stopped  beating? 

When  Mr.  Bernard  said  to  Helen,  "  I  have  been  dead  since 
I  saw  you,"  it  startled  her  not  a  little ;  for  his  expression  was 
that  of  perfect  good  faith,  and  she  feared  that  his  mind  was 
disordered.  When  he  explained,  not  as  has  been  done  just 
now,  at  length,  but  in  a  hurried,  imperfect  way,  the  meaning 
of  his  strange  assertion,  and  the  fearful  Sadduceeism  which 
it  had  suggested  to  his  mind,  she  looked  troubled  at  first,  and 


288  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

then  thoughtful.  She  did  not  feel  able  to  answer  all  the  diffi 
culties  he  raised,  but  she  met  them  with  that  faith  which  is 
the  strength  as  well  as  the  weakness  of  women, — which  makes 
them  weak  in  the  hands  of  man,  but  strong  in  the  presence 
of  the  Unseen. 

"  It  is  a  strange  experience,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  once  had 
something  like  it.  I  fainted,  and  lost  five  or  ten  minutes  out 
of  my  life,  as  much  as  if  I  had  been  dead.  But  when  I  came  to 
myself,  I  was  the  same  person  every  way,  in  my  recollection 
and  character.  So  I  suppose  that  loss  of  consciousness  is  not 
death.  And  if  I  was  born  out  of  unconsciousness  into  infancy 
with  many  family  traits  of  mind  and  body,  I  can  believe  from 
my  own  reason,  even  without  help  from  Revelation,  that  I 
shall  be  born  again  out  of  the  unconsciousness  of  death  with 
my  individual  traits  of  mind  and  body.  If  death  is,  as  it 
should  seem  to  be,  a  loss  of  consciousness,  that  does  not  shake 
my  faith;  for  1  have  been  put  into  a  body  once  already  to  fit 
me  for  living  here,  and  I  hope  to  be  in  some  way  fitted  after 
this  life  to  enjoy  a  better  one.  But  it  is  all  trust  in  God  and 
in  his  Word.  These  are  enough  for  me;  I  hope  they  are 
for  you." 

Helen  was  a  minister's  daughter,  and  familiar  from  her 
childhood  with  this  class  of  questions,  especially  with  all  the 
doubts  and  perplexities  which  are  sure  to  assail  every  thinking 
child  bred  in  any  inorganic  or  not  thoroughly  vitalized  faith, 
— as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the  children  of  professional 
theologians.  The  kind  of  discipline  they  are  subjected  to  is 
like  that  of  the  Flat-Head  Indian  papooses.  At  five  or  ten  or 
fifteen  years  old,  they  put  their  hands  up  to  their  foreheads 
and  ask,  What  are  they  strapping  down  my  brains  in  this  way 
for?  So  they  tear  off  the  sacred  bandages  of  the  great  Flat- 
Head  tribe,  and  there  follows  a  mighty  rush  of  blood  to  the 
long-compressed  region.  This  accounts,  in  the  most  lucid 
manner,  for  those  certain  freaks  with  which  certain  children 
of  this  class  astonish  their  worthy  parents  at  the  period  of 
life  when  they  are  growing  fast,  and,  the  frontal  pressure  be 
ginning  to  be  felt  as  something  intolerable,  they  tear  off  the 
holy  compresses. 

The  hour  for  school  came,  and  they  went  to  the  great  hall 
for  study.  It  would  not  have  occurred  to  Mr.  Silas  Peckham 
to  ask  his  assistant  whether  he  felt  well  enough  to  attend  to 
his  duties;  and  Mr.  Bernard  chose  to  be  at  his  post.  A  little 


THE  NEWS  BEACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION. 

headache  and  confusion  were  all  that  remained  of  his  symp 
toms. 

Later,  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  Elsie  \7enner  came  in 
and  took  her  place.  The  girls  all  stared  at  her, — naturally 
enough;  for  it  was  hardly  to  have  been  expected  that  she 
would  show  herself,  after  such  an  event  in  the  household  to 
which  she  belonged.  Her  expression  was  somewhat  peculiar, 
and,  of  course,  was  attributed  to  the  shock  her  feelings  had 
undergone  on  hearing  of  the  crime  attempted  by  her  cousin 
and  daily  companion.  When  she  was  looking  at  her  book, 
or  on  any  indifferent  subject,  her  countenance  betrayed  some 
inward  disturbance,  which  knitted  her  dark  brows  and  seemed 
to  throw  a  deeper  shadow  over  her  features.  But  from  time 
to  time  she  would  lift  her  eyes  toward  Mr.  Bernard,  and  let 
them  rest  upon  him,  without  a  thought,  seemingly,  that  she 
herself  was  the  subject  of  observation  or  remark.  Then  they 
seemed  to  lose  their  cold  glitter,  and  soften  into  a  strange, 
dreamy  tenderness.  The  deep  instincts  of  womanhood  were 
striving  to  grope  their  way  to  the  surface  of  her  being 
through  all  the  alien  influences  which  overlaid  them.  She 
could  be  secret  and  cunning  in  working  out  any  of  her  dan 
gerous  impulses,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  mask  the 
unwonted  feeling  which  fixed  her  eyes  and  her  thoughts  upon 
the  only  person  who  had  ever  reached  the  spring  of  her  hidden 
sympathies. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie,  whenever  they  could  steal  a 
glance  unperceived,  and  many  of  them  were  struck  with  this 
singular  expression  her  features  wore.  They  had  long  whis 
pered  around  among  each  other  that  she  had  a  liking  for  the 
master ;  but  there  were  too  many  of  them  of  whom  something 
like  this  could  be  said,  to  make  it  very  remarkable.  Now, 
however,  when  so  many  little  hearts  were  fluttering  at  the 
thought  of  the  peril  through  which  the  handsome  young  mas 
ter  had  so  recently  passed,  they  were  more  alive  than  ever  to 
the  supposed  relation  between  him  and  the  dark  schoolgirl. 
Some  had  supposed  there  was  a  mutual  attachment  between 
them;  there  was  a  story  that  they  were  secretly  betrothed,  in 
accordance  with  the  rumor  which  had  been  current  in  the 
village.  At  any  rate,  some  conflict  was  going  on  in  that  still, 
remote,  clouded  soul,  and  all  the  girls  who  looked  upon  her 
face  were  impressed  and  awed  as  they  had  never  been  before 
by  the  shadows  that  passed  over  it. 


290  ELSIE  VENNEE. 

One  of  these  girls  was  more  strongly  arrested  by  Elsie's 
look  than  the  others.  This  was  a  delicate,  pallid  creature, 
with  a  wide  forehead,  and  wide-open  pupils,  which  looked  as 
if  they  could  take  in  all  the  shapes  that  flit  in  what,  to  com 
mon  eyes,  is  darkness, — a  girl  said  to  be  clairvoyant  under 
certain  influences.  In  the  recess,  as  it  was  called,  or  interval 
of  suspended  studies  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  this  girl 
carried  her  autograph-book, — for  she  had  one  of  those  indis 
pensable  appendages  of  the  boarding-school  miss  of  every  de 
gree, — and  asked  Elsie  to  write  her  name  in  it.  She  had  an 
irresistible  feeling,  that,  sooner  or  later,  and  perhaps  very 
soon,  there  would  attach  an  unusual  interest  to  this  auto 
graph.  Elsie  took  the  pen  and  wrote,  in  her  sharp,  Italian 
hand, 

Elsie  Venner,  Infelix. 


It  was  a  remembrance,  doubtless,  of  the  forlorn  queen  of 
the  "  ^Eneid " ;  but  its  coming  to  her  thought  in  this  way 
confirmed  the  sensitive  schoolgirl  in  her  fears  for  Elsie,  and 
she  let  fall  a  tear  upon  the  page  before  she  closed  it. 

Of  course,  the  keen  and  practiced  observation  of  Helen 
Darley  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  change  of  Elsie's  manner 
and  expression.  She  had  long  seen  that  she  was  attracted  to 
the  young  master,  and  had  thought,  as  the  old  Doctor  did, 
that  any  impression  which  acted  upon  her  affections  might 
be  the  means  of  awakening  a  new  life  in  her  singularly  iso 
lated  nature.  However,  the  concentration  of  the  poor  girl's 
thoughts  upon  the  one  subject  which  had  had  power  to  reach 
her  deeper  sensibilities  was  so  painfully  revealed  in  her  fea 
tures,  that  Helen  began  to  fear  once  more,  lest  Mr.  Bernard, 
in  escaping  the  treacherous  violence  of  an  assassin,  had  been 
left  to  the  equally  dangerous  consequences  of  a  violent,  en 
grossing  passion  in  the  breast  of  a  young  creature  whose  love 
it  would  be  ruin  to  admit  and  might  be  deadly  to  reject.  She 
knew  her  own  heart  too  well  to  fear  that  any  jealousy  might 
mingle  with  her  new  apprehensions.  It  was  understood  be 
tween  Bernard  and  Helen  that  they  were  too  good  friends  to 
tamper  with  the  silences  and  edging  proximities  of  love-mak 
ing.  She  knew,  too,  the  simply  human,  not  masculine,  in 
terest  which  Mr.  Bernard  took  in  Elsie;  he  had  been  frank 
with  Helenj  and  more  than  satisfied  her  that  with  all  the 


THE    NEWS    REACHES    THE    DUDLEY    MANSION.       291 

pity  and  sympathy  which  overflowed  in  his  soul,  when  he 
thought  of  the  stricken  girl,  there  mingled  not  one  drop  of 
such  love  as  a  youth  may  feel  for  a  maiden. 

It  may  help  the  reader  to  gain  some  understanding  of  the 
anomalous  nature  of  Elsie  Venner,  if  we  look  with  Helen  into 
Mr.  Bernard's  opinions  and  feelings  with  reference  to  her,  as 
they  had  shaped  themselves  in  his  consciousness  at  the  period 
of  which  we  are  speaking. 

At  first  he  had  been  impressed  by  her  wild  beauty,  and  the 
contrast  of  all  her  looks  and  ways  with  those  of  the  girls 
around  her.  Presently  a  sense  of  some  ill-defined  personal 
element,  which  half  attracted  and  half  repelled  those  who 
looked  upon  her,  and  especially  those  upon  whom  she  looked, 
began  to  make  itself  obvious  to  him,  as  soon  as  he  found  that 
it  was  painfully  sensible  to  his  more  susceptible  companion, 
the  lady-teacher.  It  was  not  merely  in  the  cold  light  of  her 
diamond  eyes,  but  in  all  her  movements,  in  her  graceful  pos 
tures  as  she  sat,  in  her  costume,  and,  he  sometimes  thought, 
even  in  her  speech,  that  this  obscure  and  exceptional  char 
acter  betrayed  itself.  When  Helen  said,  that,  if  they  were 
living  in  times  when  human  beings  were  subject  to  posses 
sion,  she  should  have  thought  there  was  something  not  human 
about  Elsie,  it  struck  an  unsuspected  vein  of  thought  in  his 
own  mind,  which  he  hated  to  put  in  words,  but  which  was 
continually  trying  to  articulate  itself  among  the  dumb 
thoughts  which  lie  under  the  perpetual  stream  of  mental 
whispers. 

Mr.  Bernard's  professional  training  had  made  him  slow 
to  accept  marvelous  stories  and  many  forms  of  superstition. 
Yet,  as  a  man  of  science,  he  well  knew  that  just  on  the  verge 
of  the  demonstrable  facts  of  physics  and  physiology  there  is 
a  nebulous  border-land  which  what  is  called  "  common 
sense  "  perhaps  does  wisely  not  to  enter,  but  which  uncommon 
sense,  or  the  fine  apprehension  of  privileged  intelligences, 
may  cautiously  explore,  and  in  so  doing  find  itself  behind  the 
scenes  which  make  up  for  the  gazing  world  the  show  which 
is  called  Nature. 

It  was  with  something  of  this  finer  perception,  perhaps 
with  some  degree  of  imaginative  exaltation,  that  he  set  him 
self  to  solving  the  problem  of  Elsie's  influence  to  attract  and 
repel  those  around  her.  His  letter,  already  submitted  to  the 
reader,  hints  in  what  direction  his  thoughts  were  disposed  to 


292  ELSIE   VENNER. 

turn.  Here  was  a  magnificent  organization,  superb  in  vig 
orous  womanhood,  with  a  beauty  such  as  never  comes  but 
after  generations  of  culture ;  yet  through  all  this  rich  nature, 
there  was  some  alien  current  of  influence,  sinuous  and  dark, 
as  when  a  clouded  streak  seams  the  white  marble  of  a  perfect 
statue. 

It  would  be  needless  to  repeat  the  particular  suggestions 
which  had  come  into  his  mind,  as  they  must  probably  have 
come  into  that  of  the  reader  who  has  noted  the  singularities 
of  Elsie's  tastes  and  personal  traits.  The  images  which  cer 
tain  poets  had  dreamed  of  seemed  to  have  become  a  reality  be 
fore  his  own  eyes.  Then  came  that  unexplained  adventure 
of  The  Mountain, — almost  like  a  dream  in  recollection,  yet 
assuredly  real  in  some  of  its  main  incidents, — with  all  that 
it  revealed  or  hinted.  The  girl  did  not  fear  to  visit  the 
dreaded  region,  where  danger  lurked  in  every  nook  and  be 
neath  every  tuft  of  leaves.  Did  the  tenants  of  the  fatal  ledge 
recognize  some  mysterious  affinity  which  made  them  tributary 
to  the  cold  glitter  of  her  diamond  eyes?  Was  she  from  her 
birth  one  of  those  frightful  children,  such  as  he  had  read 
about,  and  the  Professor  had  told  him  of,  who  form  unnatural 
friendships  with  cold,  writhing  ophidians?  There  was  no 
need  of  so  unwelcome  a  thought  as  this;  she  had  drawn  him 
away  from  the  dark  opening  in  the  rock  at  the  moment  when 
he  seemed  to  be  threatened  by  one  of  its  malignant  deni 
zens;  that  was  all  he  could  be  sure  of;  the  counter-fascina 
tion  might  have  been  a  dream,  a  fancy,  a  coincidence.  All 
wonderful  things  soon  grow  doubtful  in  our  own  minds,  as 
do  even  common  events,  if  great  interest  prove  suddenly  to 
attach  to  their  truth  or  falsehood. 

1,  who  am  telling  of  these  occurrences,  saw  a  friend 

in  a  great  city,  on  the  morning  of  a  most  memorable  disaster, 
hours  after  the  time  when  the  train  which  carried  its  victims 
to  their  doom  had  left.  I  talked  with  him,  and  was  for  some 
minutes,  at  least,  in  his  company.  When  I  reached  home  I 
found  that  the  story  had  gone  before  that  he  was  among 
the  lost,  and  I  alone  could  contradict  it  to  his  weeping  friends 
and  relatives.  I  did  contradict  it;. but  alas!  I  began  soon 
to  doubt  myself,  penetrated  by  the  contagion  of  their  solici 
tude;  my  recollection  began  to  question  itself;  the  order  of 
events  became  dislocated;  and  when  I  heard  that  he  had 
reached  home  in  safety,  the  relief  was  almost  as  great  to  IUQ 


THE  NEWS  EE ACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION.   293 

as  to  those  who  expected  to  see  their  own  brother's  face  no 
more. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  disposed,  then,  not  to  accept  the  thought 
of  any  odious  personal  relationship  of  the  kind  which  had 
suggested  itself  to  him  when  he  wrote  the  letter  referred  to. 
That  the  girl  had  something  of  the  feral  nature,  her  wild, 
lawless  rambles  in  forbidden  and  blasted  regions  of  The 
Mountain  at  all  hours,  her  familiarity  with  the  lonely  haunts 
where  any  other  human  foot  was  so  rarely  seen,  proved  clearly 
enough.  But  the  more  he  thought  of  all  her  strange  instincts' 
and  modes  of  being,  the  more  he  became  convinced  that  what 
ever  alien  impulse  swayed  her  will  and  modulated  or  diverted 
or  displaced  her  affections  came  from  some  impression  that 
reached  far  back  into  the  past,  before  the  days  when  the 
faithful  Old  Sophy  had  rocked  her  in  the  cradle.  He  believed 
that  she  had  brought  her  ruling  tendency,  whatever  it  was, 
into  the  world  with  her. 

When  the  school  was  over,  and  the  girls  had  all  gone,  Helen 
lingered  in  the  schoolroom  to  speak  with  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  Did  you  remark  Elsie's  ways  this  forenoon  ?  "  she  said. 

"No,  not  particularly;  I  have  not  noticed  anything  as 
sharply  as  I  commonly  do;  my  head  has  been  a  little  queer, 
and  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  we  were  talking  about, 
and  how  near  I  came  to  solving  the  great  problem  which  every 
day  makes  clear  to  such  multitudes  of  people.  What  about 
Elsie?" 

"  Bernard,  her  liking  for  you  is  growing  into  a  passion.  I 
have  studied  girls  for  a  long  while,  and  I  know  the  difference 
between  their  passing  fancies  and  their  real  emotions.  I 
told  you,  you  remember,  that  Rosa  would  have  to  leave  us; 
we  barely  missed  a  scene,  I  think,  if  not  a  whole  tragedy,  by 
her  going  at  the  right  moment.  But  Elsie  is  infinitely  more 
dangerous  to  herself  and  others.  Women's  love  is  fierce 
enough,  if  it  once  gets  the  mastery  of  them,  always;  but  this 
poor  girl  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  a  passion." 

Mr.  Bernard  had  never  told  Helen  the  story  of  the  flower 
in  his  Virgil,  or  that  other  adventure  which  he  would  have 
felt  awkwardly  to  refer  to;  but  it  had  been  perfectly  under 
stood  between  them  that  Elsie  showed  in  her  own  singular 
way  a  well-marked  partiality  for  the  young  master. 

"  Why  don't  they  take  her  away  from  the  school,  if  she  is 
in  such  a  strange,  excitable  state  ? "  said  Mr.  Bernard. 


294  ELSIE    VENNER. 

"  I  believe  they  are  afraid  of  her,"  Helen  answered.  "  It 
is  just  one  of  those  cases  that  are  ten  thousand  times  worse 
than  insanity.  I  don't  think,  from  what  I  hear,  that  her 
father  has  ever  given  up  hoping  that  she  will  outgrow  her 
peculiarities.  Oh,  these  peculiar  children,  for  whom  parents 
go  on  hoping  every  morning  and  despairing  every  night !  If  I 
could  tell  you  half  that  mothers  have  told  me,  you  would  feel 
that  the  worst  of  all  diseases  of  the  moral  sense  and  the  will 
are  those  which  all  the  Bedlams  turn  away  from  their  doors 
as  not  being  cases  of  insanity !  " 

"  Do  you  think  her  father  has  treated  her  judiciously  ? " 
said  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  I  think,"  said  Helen,  with  a  little  hesitation,  which  Mr. 
Bernard  did  not  happen  to  notice, — "  I  think  he  has  been 
very  kind  and  indulgent,  and  I  do  not  know  that  he  could 
have  treated  her  otherwise  with  a  better  chance  of  success." 

"  He  must,  of  course,  be  fond  of  her,"  Mr.  Bernard  said ; 
"  there  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  for  him  to  love." 

Helen  dropped  a  book  she  held  in  her  hand,  and,  stooping  to 
pick  it  up,  the  blood  rushed  into  her  cheeks. 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  she  said ;  "  you  must  not  stay  any 
longer  in  this  close  schoolroom.  Pray,  go  and  get  a  little 
fresh  air  before  dinner-time." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A    SOUL    IN    DISTRESS. 

The  events  told  in  the  last  two  chapters  had  taken  place 
toward  the  close  of  the  week.  On  Saturday  evening  the 
Reverend  Chaimcy  Fairweather  received  a  note  which  was 
left  at  his  door  by  an  unknown  person  who  departed  without 
saying  a  word.  Its  words  were  these : — 

"  One  who  is  in  distress  of  mind  requests  the  prayers  of 
this  congregation  that  God  would  be  pleased  to  look  in  mercy 
upon  the  soul  that  he  has  afflicted." 

There  was  nothing  to  show  from  whom  the  note  came,  or 
the  sex  or  age  or  special  source  of  spiritual  discomfort  or 
anxiety  of  the  writer.  The  handwriting  was  delicate  and 
might  well  be  a  woman's.  The  clergyman  was  not  aware  of 
any  particular  affliction  among  his  parishioners  which  was 
likely  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a  request  of  this  kind. 
Surely  neither  of  the  Venners  would  advertise  the  attempted 
crime  of  their  relative  in  this  way.  But  who  else  was  there? 
The  more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more  it  puzzled  him ;  and 
as  he  did  not  like  to  pray  in  the  dark,  without  knowing  for 
whom  he  was  praying,  he  could  think  of  nothing  better  than 
to  step  into  old  Doctor  Kittredge's  and  see  what  he  had  to 
say  about  it. 

The  old  Doctor  was  sitting  alone  in  his  study  when  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  ushered  in.  He  received  his 
visitor  very  pleasantly,  expecting,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
that  he  would  begin  with  some  new  grievance,  dyspeptic, 
neuralgic,  bronchitic,  or  other.  The  minister,  liowever,  be 
gan  with  questioning  the  old  Doctor  about  the  sequel  of  the 
other  night's  adventure;  for  he  was  already  getting  a  little 
Jesuitical,  and  kept  back  the  object  of  his  visit  until  it 
should  come  up  as  if  accidentally  in  the  course  of  conver 
sation. 

"  It  was  a  pretty  bold  thing  to  go  off  alone  with  that  rep 
robate,  as  you  did,"  said  the  minister. 

"  I  don't  know  what  there  was  bold  about  it,"  the  Doctor 


296  ELSIE   VENNER. 

answered.  "  All  he  wanted  was  to  get  away.  He  was  not 
quite  a  reprobate,  you  see;  he  didn't  like  the  thought  of 
disgracing  his  family  or  facing  his  uncle.  I  think  he  was 
ashamed  to  see  his  cousin,  too,  after  what  he  had  done." 

"  Did  he  talk  with  you  on  the  way  ?  " 

"  Not  much.  For  half  an  hour  or  so  he  didn't  speak  a 
word.  Then  he  asked  where  I  was  driving  him.  I  told  him, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  surprised  into  a  sort  of  grateful  feeling. 
Bad  enough,  no  doubt, — but  might  be  worse.  Has  some 

C  humanity  left  in  him.  Let  him  go.  God  can  judge  him, 
—I  can't." 

"You  are  too  charitable,  Doctor,"  the  minister  said. 
"  I  condemn  him  just  as  if  he  had  carried  out  his  project, 
which,  they  say,  was  to  make  it  appear  as  if  the  schoolmaster 
had  committed  suicide.  That's  what  people  think  the  rope 
found  by  him  was  for.  He  has  saved  his  neck, — but  his 
soul  is  a  lost  one,  I  am  afraid,  beyond  question." 

"  I  can't  judge  men's  souls,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  I  can 
judge  their  acts,  and  hold  them  responsible  for  those, — but 
...  I  don't  know  much  about  their  souls.  If  you  or  I  had  found 
our  souls  in  a  half-breed  body,  and  been  turned  loose  to  run 
among  the  Indians,  we  might  have  been  playing  just  such 
tricks  as  this  fellow  has  been  trying.  What  if  you  or  I 
had  inherited  all  the  tendencies  that  were  born  with  his 
cousin  Elsie  ? " 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me," — the  minister  said,  in  a  sudden 
way, — "  I  have  received  a  note,  which  I  am  requested  to  read 
from  the  pulpit  to-morrow.  I  wish  you  would  just  have  the 
kindness  to  look  at  it  and  see  where  you  think  it  came 
from." 

The  Doctor  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  a  woman's  or 
girl's  note,  he  thought.  Might  come  from  one  of  the  school 
girls  who  was  anxious  about  her  spiritual  condition.  Hand 
writing  was  disguised;  looked  a  little  like  Elsie  Venner's, 
but  not  characteristic  enough  to  make  it  certain.  It  would 
be  a  new  thing  if  she  had  asked  public  prayers  for  herself, 
and  a  very  favorable  indication  of  a  change  in  her  singular 
moral  nature.  It  was  just  possible  Elsie  might  have  sent 
that  note.  Nobody  could  foretell  her  actions.  It  would  be 
well  to  see  the  girl  and  find  out  whether  any  unusual  im 
pression  had  been  produced  on  her  mind  by  the  recent  oc 
currence  or  by  any  other  cause. 


A    SOUL    IN   DISTRESS.  297 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Fairweather  folded  the  note  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"  I  have  been  a  good  deal  exercised  in  mind  lately  myself," 
he  said. 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  him  through  his  spectacles,  and 
said,  in  his  usual  professional  tone, — 

"  Put  out  your  tongue." 

The  minister  obeyed  him  in  that  feeble  way  common  with 
persons  of  weak  character, — for  people  differ  as  much  in 
their  mode  of  performing  this  trifling  act  as  Gideon's  sol 
diers  in  their  way  of  drinking  at  the  brook.  The  Doctor  took 
his  hand  and  placed  a  finger  mechanically  on  his  wrist. 

"  It  is  more  spiritual,  I  think,  than  bodily,"  said  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Fairweather. 

"  Is  your  appetite  as  good  as  usual  ?  "  the  Doctor  asked. 

"  Pretty  good,"  the  minister  answered ;  "  but  my  sleep, 
my  sleep,  Doctor, — I  am  greatly  troubled  at  night  with  lying 
awake  and  thinking  of  my  future, — I  am  not  at  ease  in 
mind." 

He  looked  round  at  all  the  doors,  to.  be  sure  they  were 
shut,  and  moved  his  chair  up  close  to  the  Doctor's. 

"  You  do  not  know  the  mental  trials  I  have  been  going 
through  for  the  last  few  months." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  the  old  Doctor  said.  "  You  want  to  get 
out  of  the  new  church  into  the  old  one,  don't  you  ? " 

The  minister  blushed  deeply;  he  thought  he  had  been  go 
ing  on  in  a  very  quiet  way,  and  that  nobody  suspected  his 
secret.  As  the  old  Doctor  was  his  counselor  in  sickness, 
and  almost  everybody's  confidant  in  trouble,  he  had  intended 
to  impart  cautiously  to  him  some  hints  of  the  change  of 
sentiments  through  which  he  had  been  passing.  He  was 
too  late  with  his  information,  it  appeared,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  throw  himself  on  the  Doctor's 
good  sense  and  kindness,  which  everybody  knew,  and  get 
what  hints  he  could  from  him  as  to  the  practical  course  he 
should  pursue.  He  began,  after  an  awkward  pause,— 

"  You  would  not  have  me  stay  in  a  communion  which  I 
feel  to  be  alien  to  the  true  church,  would  you  ? " 

"  Have  you  stay,  my  friend  ? "  said  the  Doctor,  with  a 
pleasant,  friendly  look, — "have  you  stay?  Not  a  month, 
nor  a  week,  nor  a  day,  if  I  could  help  it.  You  have  got  into 
the  wrong  pulpit,  and  I  have  known  it  from  the  first.  The 


298  ELSIE    VENNER. 

sooner  you  go  where  you  belong,  the  better.  And  I'm  very 
glad  you  don't  mean  to  stop  half-way.  Don't  you  know 
you've  always  come  to  me  when  you've  been  dyspeptic  or 
sick  anyhow,  and  wanted  to  put  yourself  wholly  into  my 
hands,  so  that  I  might  order  you  like  a  child  just  what  to 
do  and  what  to  take?  That's  exactly  what  you  want  in 
religion.  I  don't  blame  you  for  it.  You  never  liked  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  your  own  body;  I  don't  see  why 
you  should  want  to  have  the  charge  of  your  own  soul.  But 
I'm  glad  you're  going  to  the  Old  Mother  of  all.  You 
wouldn't  have  been  contented  short  of  that." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  breathed  with  more  free 
dom.  The  Doctor  saw  into  his  soul  through  those  awful 
spectacles  of  his, — into  it  and  beyond  it,  as  one  sees  through 
a  thin  fog.  But  it  was  with  a  real  human  kindness,  after 
all.  He  felt  like  a  child  before  a  strong  man ;  but  the  strong 
man  looked  on  him  with  a  father's  indulgence.  Many  and 
many  a  time,  when  he  had  come  desponding  and  bemoaning 
himself  on  account  of  some  contemptible  bodily  infirmity, 
the  old  Doctor  had  looked  at  him  through  his  spectacles, 
listened  patiently  while  he  told  his  ailments,  and  then,  in 
his  large  parental  way,  given  him  a  few  words  of  whole 
some  advice,  and  cheered  him  up  so  that  he  went  off  with 
a  light  heart,  thinking  that  the  heaven  he  was  so  much 
afraid  of  was  not  so  very  near,  after  all.  It  was  the  same 
thing  now.  He  felt,  as  feeble  natures  always  do  in  the 
presence  of  strong  ones,  overmastered,  circumscribed,  shut 
in,  humbled;  but  yet  it  seemed  as  if  the  old  Doctor  did  not 
despise  him  any  more  for  what  he  considered  weakness  of 
mind  than  he  used  to  despise  him  when  he  complained  of 
his  nerves  or  his  digestion. 

Men  who  see  into  their  neighbors  are  very  apt  to  be  con 
temptuous;  but  men  who  see  through  them  find  something 
lying  behind  every  human  soul  which  it  is  not  for  them  to 
sit  in  judgment  on,  or  to  attempt  to  sneer  out  of  the  order 
of  God's  manifold  universe. 

Little  as  the  Doctor  had  said  out  of  which  comfort  could 
be  extracted,  his  genial  manner  had  something  grateful  in 
it.  A  film  of  gratitude  came  over  the  poor  man's  cloudy, 
uncertain  eye,  and  a  look  of  tremulous  relief  and  satisfaction 
played  about  his  weak  mouth.  He  was  gravitating  to  the 
majority,  where  he  hoped  to  find  "  rest " ;  but  he  was  dread- 


A    SOUL    IK    DISTRESS.  299 

fully  sensitive  to  the  opinions  of  the  minority  he  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving. 

The  old  Doctor  saw  plainly  enough  what  was  going  on 
in  his  mind. 

"  I  sha'n't  quarrel  with  you,"  he  said, — "  you  know  that 
very  well;  but  you  mustn't  quarrel  with  me,  if  I  talk  hon 
estly  with  you;  it  isn't  everybody  that  will  take  the  trouble. 
You  flatter  yourself  that  you  will  make  a  good  many  ene 
mies  by  leaving  your  old  communion.  Not  so  many  as  you 
think.  This  is  the  way  the  common  sort  of  people  will 
talk : — '  You  have  got  your  ticket  to  the  feast  of  life,  as 
much  as  any  other  man  that  ever  lived.'  Protestantism 
says, — 'Help  yourself;  here's  a  clean  plate,  and  a  knife  and 
fork  of  your  own,  and  plenty  of  fresh  dishes  to  choose  from.' 
The  Old  Mother  says, — *  Give  me  your  ticket,  my  dear,  and 
I'll  feed  you  with  my  gold  spoon  off  these  beautiful  old 
wooden  trenchers.  Such  nice  bits  as  those  good  old  gentle 
men  have  left  for  you ! '  i  There  is  no  quarreling  with  a 
man  who  prefers  broken  victuals.'  That's  what  the  rougher 
sort  will  say ;  and  then,  where  on©  scolds,  ten  will  laugh. 
But,  mind  you,  I  don't  either  scold  or  laugh.  I  don't  feel 
sure  that  you  could  very  well  have  helped  doing  what  you 
will  soon  do.  You  know  you  were  never  easy  without  some 
medicine  to  take  when  you  felt  ill  in  body.  I'm  afraid  I've 
given  you  trashy  stuff  sometimes,  just  to  keep  you  quiet. 
Now,  let  me  tell  you,  there  is  just  the  same  difference  in 
spiritual  patients  that  there  is  in  bodily  ones.  One  set  be 
lieves  in  wholesome  ways  of  living,  and  another  must  have 
a  great  list  of  specifics  for  all  the  soul's  complaints.  You 
belong  with  the  last,  and  got  accidentally  shuffled  in  with 
the  others." 

The  minister  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not  reply.  Of  course, 
he  considered  that  way  of  talking  as  the  result  of  the  Doc 
tor's  professional  training.  It  would  not  have  been  worth 
while  to  take  offense  at  his  plain  speech,  if  he  had  been  so 
disposed;  for  he  might  wish  to  consult  him  the  next  day 
as  to  "  what  he  should  take  "  for  his  dyspepsia  or  his  neu 
ralgia. 

He  left  the  Doctor  with  a  hollow  feeling  at  the  bottom  of 
his  soul,  as  if  a  good  piece  of  his  manhood  had  been  scooped 
out  of  him.  His  hollow  aching  did  not  explain  itself  in 
words,  but  it  grumbled  and  worried  down  among  the  un- 


300  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

shaped  thoughts  which  lie  beneath  them.  He  knew  that  he 
had  been  trying  to  reason  himself  out  of  his  birthright  of 
reason.  He  knew  that  the  inspiration  which  gave  him 
understanding  was  losing  its  throne  in  his  intelligence,  and 
the  almighty  Majority- Vote  was  proclaiming  itself  in  its 
stead.  He  knew  that  the  great  primal  truths,  which  each 
successive  revelation  only  confirmed,  were  fast  becoming  hid 
den  beneath  the  mechanical  forms  of  thought,  which,  as  with 
all  new  converts,  engrossed  so  large  a  share  of  his  atten 
tion.  The  "peace,"  the  "rest,"  which  he  had  purchased, 
were  dearly  bought  to  one  who  had  been  trained  to  the  arms 
of  thought,  and  whose  noble  privilege  it  might  have  been  to 
live  in  perpetual  warfare  for  the  advancing  truth  which  the 
next  generation  will  claim  as  the  legacy  of  the  present. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  getting  careless  about 
his  sermons.  He  must  wait  the  fitting  moment  to  declare 
himself ;  and  in  the  mean  time  he  was  preaching  to  heretics. 
It  did  not  matter  much  what  he  preached,  under  such  cir 
cumstances.  He  pulled  out  two  old  yellow  sermons  from  a 
heap  of  such,  and  began  looking  over  that  for  the  forenoon. 
Naturally  enough  he  fell  asleep  over  it,  and,  sleeping,  he 
began  to  dream. 

He  dreamed  that  he  was  under  the  high  arches  of  an  old 
cathedral,  amidst  a  throng  of  worshipers.  The  light  streamed 
in  through  vast  windows,  dark  with  the  purple  robes  of  royal 
saints,  'or  blazing  with  yellow  glories  around  the  heads  of 
earthly  martyrs  and  heavenly  messengers.  The  billows  of 
the  great  organ  roared  among  the  clustered  columns,  as  the 
sea  breaks  amidst  the  basaltic  pillars  which  crowd  the  stormy 
cavern  of  the  Hebrides.  The  voice  of  the  alternate  choirs 
of  singing  boys  swung  back  and  forward,  as  the  silver  censer 
swung  in  the  hands  of  the  white-robed  children.  The  sweet 
cloud  of  incense  rose  in  soft,  fleecy  mists,  full  of  penetrating 
suggestions  of  the  East  and  its  perfumed  altars.  The  knees 
of  twenty  generations  had  worn  the  pavement ;  their  feet  had 
hollowed  the  steps;  their  shoulders  had  smoothed  the  col 
umns.  Dead  bishops  and  abbots  lay  under  the  marble  of  the 
floor  in  their  crumbled  vestments;  dead  warriors,  in  rusted 
armor,  were  stretched  beneath  their  sculptured  effigies.  And 
all  at  once  all  the  buried  multitudes  who  had  ever  worshiped 
there  came  thronging  in  through  the  aisles.  They  choked 
every  space,  they  swarmed  into  all  the  chapels,  they  hung  in 


A    SOUL    IN    DISTRESS.  301 

clusters  over  the  parapets  of  the  galleries,  they  clung  to  the 
images  in  every  niche,  and  still  the  vast  throng  kept  flowing 
and  flowing  in,  until  the  living  were  lost  in  the  rush  of  the 
returning  dead  who  had  reclaimed  their  own.  Then,  as  his 
dream  became  more  fantastic,  the  huge  cathedral  itself 
seemed  to  change  into  the  wreck  of  some  mighty  antedilu 
vian  vertebrate;  its  flying-buttresses  arched  round  like  ribs, 
its  piers  shaped  themselves  into  limbs,  and  the  sound  of  the 
organ-blast  changed  to  the  wind  whistling  through  its 
thousand-jointed  skeleton. 

And  presently  the  sound  lulled,  and  softened  and  softened, 
until  it  was  as  the  murmur  of  a  distant  swarm  of  bees.  A  pro 
cession  of  monks  wound  along  through  an  old  street,  chant 
ing,  as  they  walked.  In  his  dream  he  glided  in  among 
them  and  bore  his  part  in  the  burden  of  their  song.  He 
entered  with  the  long  train  under  a  low  arch,  and  presently 
he  was  kneeling  in  a  narrow  cell  before  an  image  of  the 
Blessed  Maiden  holding  the  Divine  Child  in  her  arms,  and 
his  lips  seemed  to  whisper, — 

Sancta  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis! 

He  turned  to  the  crucifix,  and,  prostrating  himself  before 
the  spare,  agonizing  shape  of  the  Holy  Sufferer,  fell  into  a 
long  passion  of  tears  and  broken  prayers.  He  rose  and 
flung  himself,  worn-out,  upon  his  hard  pallet,  and,  seeming 
to  slumber,  dreamed  again  within  his  dream.  Once  more 
in  the  vast  cathedral,  with  throngs  of  the  living  choking  its 
aisles,  amidst  jubilant  peals  from  the  cavernous  depths  of 
the  great  organ,  and  choral  melodies  ringing  from  the  fluty 
throats  of  the  singing  boys.  A  day  of  great  rejoicings, — for 
a  .prelate  was  to  be  consecrated,  and  the  bones  of  the  mighty 
skeleton-minster  were  shaking  with  anthems,  as  if  there 
were  life  of  its. own  within  its  buttressed  ribs.  He  looked 
down  at  his  feet;  the  folds  of  the  sacred  robe  were  flowing 
about  them:  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head;  it  was  crowned 
with  the  holy  miter.  A  long  sigh,  as  of  perfect  content  in 
the  consummation  of  all  his  earthly  hopes,  breathed  through 
the  dreamer's  lips,  and  shaped  itself,  as  it  escaped,  into  the 
blissful  murmur,, — 

Ego  sum  Episcopus! 


302  ELSIE    VENNER. 

One  grinning  gargoyle  looked  in  from  beneath  the  roof 
through  an  opening  in  a  stained  window.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  mocking  fiend,  such  as  the  old  builders  loved  to  place  under 
the  eaves  to  spout  the  rain  through  their  open  mouths.  It 
looked  at  him,  as  he  sat  in  his  mitered  chair,  with  its  hideous 
grin  growing  broader  and  broader,  until  it  laughed  out  aloud, 
— such  a  hard,  stony,  mocking  laugh,  that  he  awoke  out  of 
his  second  dream  through  his  first  into  his  common  con 
sciousness,  and  shivered,  as  he  turned  to  the  two  yellow  ser 
mons  which  he  was  to  pick  over  and  weed  of  the  little 
thought  they  might  contain,  for  the  next  day's  service. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  was  too  much  taken 
up  with  his  own  bodily  and  spiritual  condition  to  be  deeply 
mindful  of  others.  He  carried  the  note  requesting  the  pray 
ers  of  the  congregation  in  his  pocket  all  day;  and  the  soul 
in  distress,  which  a  single  tender  petition  might  have  soothed, 
and  perhaps  have  saved  from  despair  and  fatal  error,  found 
no  voice  in  the  temple  to  plead  for  it  before  the  Throne  of 
Mercy ! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  SECRET  IS  WHISPERED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather's  congregation  was  not 
large,  but  select.  The  lines  of  social  cleavage  run  through 
religious  creeds  as  if  they  were  of  a  piece  with  position  and 
fortune.  It  is  expected  of  persons  of  a  certain  breeding,  in 
some  parts  of  New  England,  that  they  shall  be  either  Episco 
palians  or  Unitarians.  The  mansion-house  gentry  of  Rock- 
land  were  pretty  fairly  divided  between  the  little  chapel  with 
the  stained  window  and  the  trained  rector,  and  the  meeting 
house  where  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweatlier  officiated. 

It  was  in  the  latter  that  Dudley  Venner  worshiped,  when 
he  attended  service  anywhere, — which  depended  very  much 
upon  the  caprice  of  Elsie.  He  saw  plainly  enough  that  a  gen 
erous  and  liberally  cultivated  nature  might  find  a  refuge  and 
congenial  souls  in  either  of  these  two  persuasions,  but  he  ob 
jected  to  some  points  of  the  formal  creed  of  the  older  church, 
and  especially  to  the  mechanism  which  renders  it  hard  to  get 
free  from  its  outworn  and  offensive  formulae, — remembering 
how  Archbishop  Tillotson  wished  in  vain  that  it  could  be 
"  well  rid  of "  the  Athanasian  Creed.  This,  and  the  fact 
that  the  meeting-house  was  nearer  than  the  chapel  deter 
mined  him,  when  the  new  rector,  who  was  not  quite  up  to  his 
mark  in  education,  was  appointed,  to  take  a  pew  in  the  "  lib 
eral"  worshipers'  edifice. 

Elsie  was  very  uncertain  in  her  feeling  about  going  to 
church.  In  summe^  she  loved  rather  to  stroll  over  The 
Mountain,  on  Sundays.  There  was  even  a  story,  that  she 
had  one  of  the  caves  before  mentioned  fitted  up  as  an  oratory, 
and  that  she  had  her  own  wild  way  of  worshiping  the  God 
whom  she  sought  in  the  dark  chasms  of  the  dreaded  cliffs. 
Mere  fables,  doubtless;  but  they  showed  the  common  belief, 
that  Elsie,  with  all  her  strange  and  dangerous  elements  of 
character,  had  yet  strong  religious  feeling  mingled  with 
them.  The  hymn-book  which  Dick  had  found,  in  his  mid 
night  invasion  of  her  chamber,  opened  to  favorite  hymns, 

ana 


304  ELSIE    VENNEE. 

especially  some  of  the  Methodist  and  Quietest  character. 
Many  had  noticed  that  certain  tunes,  as  sung  by  the  choir, 
seemed  to  impress  her  deeply;  and  some  said,  that  at  such 
times  her  whole  expression  would  change,  and  her  stormy 
look  would  soften  so  as  to  remind  them  of  her  poor,  sweet 
mother. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  talk  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter,  Elsie  made  herself  ready  to  go  to  meeting.  She  was 
dressed  much  as  usual,  excepting  that  she  wore  a  thick  veil, 
turned  aside,  but  ready  to  conceal  her  features.  It  was  nat 
ural  enough  that  she  should  not  wish  to  be  looked  in  the  face 
by  curious  persons  who  would  be  staring  to  see  what  effect 
the  occurrence  of  the  past  week  had  had  on  her  spirits.  Her 
father  attended  her  willingly;  and  they  took  their  seats  in 
the  pew,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  many,  who  had  hardly 
expected  to  see  them,  after  so  humiliating  a  family  develop 
ment  as  the  attempted  crime  of  their  kinsman  had  just  been 
furnishing  for  the  astonishment  of  the  public. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  now  in  his  coldest 
mood.  He  had  passed  through  the  period  of  feverish  excite 
ment  which  marks  a  change  of  religious  opinion.  At  first, 
when  he  had  begun  to  doubt  his  own  theological  positions,  he 
had  defended  them  against  himself  with  more  ingenuity  and 
interest,  perhaps,  than  he  could  have  done  against  another; 
because  men  rarely  take  the  trouble  to  understand  anybody's 
difficulties  in  a  question  but  their  own.  After  this,  after  he 
began  to  draw  off  from  different  points  of  his  old  belief, 
the  cautious  disentangling  of  himself  from  one  mesh  after 
another  gave  sharpness  to  his  intellect,  and  the  tremulous 
eagerness  with  which  he  seized  upon  the  doctrine  which,  piece 
by  piece,  under  various  pretexts  and  with  various  disguises,  he 
was  appropriating,  gave  interest  and  something  like  passion 
to  his  words.  But  when  he  had  gradually  accustomed  his 
people  to  his  new  phraseology,  and  was  really  adjusting  his 
sermons  and  his  service  to  disguise  his  thoughts,  he  lost  at 
once  all  his  intellectual  acuteness  and  all  his  spiritual 
fervor. 

Elsie  sat  quietly  through  the  first  part  of  the  service,  which 
was  conducted  in  the  cold,  mechanical  way  to  be  expected. 
Her  face  was  hidden  by  her  veil;  but  her  father  knew  her 
state  of  feeling,  as  well  by  her  movements  and  attitudes  as  by 
the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hymn  had  been  sung,  the 


THE    SECRET   IS    WHISPERED.  305 

short  prayer  offered,  the  Bible  read,  and  the  long  prayer  was 
about  to  begin.  This  was  the  time  at  which  the  "  notes  "  of 
any  who  were  in  affliction  from  loss  of  friends,  the  sick  who 
were  doubtful  of  recovery,  those  who  had  cause  to  be  grateful 
for  preservation  of  life,  or  other  signal  blessing,  were  wont  to 
be  read. 

Just  then  it  was  that  Dudley  Venner  noticed  that  his 
daughter  was  trembling, — a  thing  so  rare,  so  unaccountable, 
indeed,  under  the  circumstances,  that  he  watched  her  closely, 
and  began  to  fear  that  some  nervous  paroxysm,  or  other  mal 
ady,  might  have  just  begun  to  show  itself  in  this  way  upon 
her. 

The  minister  had  in  his  pocket  two  notes.  One,  in  the  hand 
writing  of  Deacon  Soper,  was  from  a  member  of  this  con 
gregation,  returning  thanks  for  his  preservation  through  a 
season  of  great  peril, — supposed  to  be  the  exposure  which  he 
had  shared  with  others,  when  standing  in  the  circle  around 
Dick  Venner.  The  other  was  the  anonymous  one,  in  a  female 
hand,  which  he  had  received  the  evening  before.  He  forgot 
them  both.  His  thoughts  were  altogether  too  much  taken  up 
with  more  important  matters.  He  prayed  through  all  the 
frozen  petitions  of  his  expurgated  form  of  supplication,  and 
not  a  single  heart  was  soothed  or  lifted,  or  reminded  that  its 
sorrows  were  struggling  their  way  up  to  heaven,  borne  on 
the  breath  from  a  human  soul  that  was  warm  with  love. 

The  people  sat  down  as  if  relieved  when  the  dreary  prayer 
was  finished.  Elsie  alone  remained  standing  until  her  father 
touched  her.  Then  she  sat  down,  lifted  her  veil,  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  blank,  sad  look,  as  if  she  had  suffered  some 
pain  or  wrong,  but  could  not  give  any  name  or  expression  to 
her  vague  trouble.  She  did  not  tremble  any  longer,  but  re 
mained  ominously  still,  as  if  she  had  been  frozen  where  she 
sat. 

— Can  a  man  love  his  own  soul  too  well?  Who,  on  the 
whole,  constitute  the  nobler  class  of  human  beings?  those 
who  have  lived  mainly  to  make  sure  of  their  own  personal 
welfare  in  another  and  future  condition  of  existence,  or  they 
who  have  worked  with  all  their  might  for  their  race,  for  their 
country,  for  the  advancement  of  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  left 
all  personal  arrangements  concerning  themselves  to  the  sole 
charge  of  Him  who  made  them  and  is  responsible  to  Himself 
for  their  safe-keeping?  Is  an  anchorite  who  has  worn  the 


306  ELSIE   VENNER. 

stone  floor  of  his  cell  into  basins  with  his  knees  bent  in 
prayer,  more  acceptable  than  the  soldier  who  gives  his  life  for 
the  maintenance  of  any  sacred  right  or  truth,  without  think 
ing  what  will  specially  become  of  him  in  a  world  where  there 
are  two  or  three  million  colonists  a  month,  from  this  one 
planet,  to  be  cared  for?  These  are  grave  questions,  which 
must  suggest  themselves  to  those  who  know  that  there  are 
many  profoundly  selfish  persons  who  are  sincerely  devout  and 
perpetually  occupied  with  their  own  future,  while  there  are 
others  who  are  perfectly  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  any 
worthy  object  in  this  world,  but  are  really  too  little  occupied 
with  their  exclusive  personality  to  think  so  much  as  many  do 
about  what  is  to  become  of  them  in  another. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  did  not,  most  cer 
tainly,  belong  to  this  latter  class.  There  are  several  kinds 
of  believers,  whose  history  we  find  among  the  early  converts 
to  Christianity. 

There  was  the  magistrate,  whose  social  position  was  such 
that  he  preferred  a  private  interview  in  the  evening  with  the 
Teacher  to  following  him  with  the  street-crowd.  He  had 
seen  extraordinary  facts  which  had  satisfied  him  that  the 
young  Galilean  had  a  divine  commission.  But  still  he  cross- 
questioned  the  Teacher  himself.  He  was  not  ready  to  accept 
statements  without  explanation.  That  was  the  right  kind  of 
man.  See  how  he  stood  up  for  the  legal  rights  of  his  Master 
when  the  people  were  for  laying  hands  on  him ! 

And  again,  there  was  the  government  official,  intrusted  with 
public  money,  which,  in  those  days,  implied  that  he  was  sup 
posed  to  be  honest.  A  single  look  of  that  heavenly  counte 
nance,  and  two  words  of  gentle  command,  were  enough  for 
him.  Neither  of  those  men,  the  early  disciple  nor  the  evan 
gelist,  seems  to  have  been  thinking  primarily  about  his  own 
personal  safety. 

But  now  look  at  the  poor,  miserable  turnkey,  whose  occupa 
tion  shows  what  he  was  like  to  be,  and  who  had  just  been 
thrusting  two  respectable  strangers,  taken  from  the  hands  of 
a  mob,  covered  with  stripes  and  stripped  of  clothing,  into  the 
inner  prison,  and  making  their  feet  fast  in  the  stocks.  His 
thought,  in  the  moment  of  terror,  is  for  himself :  first,  suicide ; 
then,  what  he  shall  do, — not  to  save  his  household, — not  to 
fulfill  his  duty  to  his  office, — not  to  repair  the  outrage  he  has 
been  committing, — but  to  secure  his  own  personal  safety. 


THE    SECRET    IS    WHISPERED.  307 

Truly,  character  shows  itself  as  much  in  a  man's  way  of 
becoming  a  Christian  as  in  any  other ! 

— Elsie  sat,  statue-like,  through  the  sermon.  It  would 
not  be  fair  to  the  reader  to  give  an  abstract  of  that.  When  a 
man  who  has  been  bred  to  free  thought  and  free  speech  sud 
denly  finds  himself  stepping  about,  like  a  dancer  amidst  his 
eggs,  among  the  old  addled  majority- votes  which  he  must  not 
tread  upon,  he  is  a  spectacle  for  men  and  angels.  Submission 
to  intellectual  precedent  and  authority  does  very  well  for 
those  who  have  been  bred  to  it;  we  know  that  the  under 
ground  courses  of  their  minds  are  laid  in  the  Roman  cement 
of  tradition,  and  that  stately  and  splendid  structures  may  be 
reared  on  such  a  foundation.  But  to  see  one  laying  a  plat 
form  over  heretical  quicksands,  thirty  or  forty  or  fifty  years 
deep,  and  then  beginning  to  build  upon  it,  is  a  sorry  sight. 
A  new  convert  from  the  reformed  to  the  ancient  faith  may 
be  very  strong  in  the  arms,  but  he  will  always  have  weak  legs 
and  shaky  knees.  He  may  use  his  hands  well,  and  hit  hard 
with  his  fists,  but  he  will  never  stand  on  his  legs  in  the  way 
the  man  does  who  inherits  his  belief. 

The  services  were  over  at  last,  and  Dudley  Venner  and  his 
daughter  walked  home  together  in  silence.  He  always 
respected  her  moods,  and  saw  clearly  enough  that  some  inward 
trouble  was  weighing  upon  her.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  in  such  cases,  for  Elsie  could  never  talk  of  her  griefs. 
An  hour,  or  a  day,  or  a  week  of  brooding,  with  perhaps  a 
sudden  flash  of  violence:  this  was  the  way  in  which  the  im 
pressions  which  make  other  women  weep,  and  tell  their  griefs 
by  word  or  letter,  showed  their  effects  in  her  mind  and  acts. 

She  wandered  off  up  into  the  remoter  parts  of  The  Moun 
tain,  that  day,  after  their  return.  No  one  saw  just  where  she 
went, — indeed,  no  one  knew  its  forest-recesses  and  rocky  fast 
nesses  as  she  did.  She  was  gone  until  late  at  night;  and 
when  Old  Sophy,  who  had  watched  for  her,  bound  up  her  long 
hair  for  her  sleep,  it  was  damp  with  the  cold  dews. 

The  old  black  woman  looked  at  her  without  speaking,  but 
questioning  her  with  every  feature  as  to  the  sorrow  that  was 
weighing  on  her. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  Old  Sophy. 

"  You  want  to  know  what  there  is  troubling  me,"  she  said. 
"  Nobody  loves  me.  I  cannot  love  anybody.  What  is  love, 
Sophy?" 


308  ELSIE    VENNER. 

"It's  what  poor  OF  Sophy's  got  for  her  Elsie,"  the  old 
woman  answered.  "  Tell  me,  darlin', — don'  you  love  some 
body? — don'  you  love ?  you  know, — oh,  tell  me,  darlin', 

don'  you  love  to  see  the  gen'l'man  that  keeps  up  at  the  school 
where  you  go  ?  They  say  he's  the  pootiest  gen'l'man  that  was 
ever  in  the  town  here.  Don'  be  'fraid  of  poor  Ol'  Sophy, 
darlin', — she  loved  a  man  once, — see  here!  Oh,  I've  showed 
you  this  often  enough !  " 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  half  of  one  of  the  old  Spanish 
silver  coins,  such  as  were  current  in  the  earlier  part  of  this 
century.  The  other  half  of  it  had  been  lying  in  the  deep 
sea-sand  for  more  than  fifty  years. 

Elsie  looked  her  in  the  face,  but  did  not  answer  in  words. 
What  strange  intelligence  was  that  which  passed  between 
them  through  the  diamond  eyes  and  the  little  beady  black 
ones  ? — what  subtle  intercommunication  penetrating  so  much 
deeper  than  articulate  speech?  This  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  sympathetic  relations  that  Elsie  ever  had :  a  kind  of  dumb 
intercourse  of  feeling,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  brute 
mothers  looking  on  their  young.  But,  subtle  as  it  was,  it 
was  narrow  and  individual;  whereas  an  emotion  which  can 
shape  itself  in  language  opens  the  gate  for  itself  into  the 
great  community  of  human  affections;  for  every  word  we 
speak  is  the  medal  of  a  dead  thought  or  feeling,  struck  in 
the  die  of  some  human  experience,  worn  smooth  by  innumer- 
.  able  contacts,  and  always  transferred  warm  from  one  to 
another.  By  words  we  share  the  common  consciousness  of 
the  race,  which  has  shaped  itself  in  these  symbols.  By  music 
we  reach  those  special  states  of  consciousness  which,  being 
without  form,  cannot  be  shaped  with  the  mosaics  of  the 
vocabulary.  The  language  of  the  eyes  runs  deeper  into  the 
personal  nature,  but  it  is  purely  individual,  and  perishes  in 
the  expression.  If  we  consider  them  all  as  growing  out  of 
the  consciousness  as  their  root,  language  is  the  leaf,  music 
is  the  flower;  but  when  the  eyes  meet  and  search  each  other, 
it  is  the  uncovering  of  the  blanched  stem  through  which  the 
whole  life  runs,  but  which  has  never  taken  color  or  form  from 
the  sunlight. 

For  three  days  Elsie  did  not  return  to  the  school.  Much 
of  the  time  she  was  among  the  woods  and  rocks.  The  season 
was  now  beginning  to  wane,  and  the  forest  to  put  on  its 
autumnal  glory.  The  dreamy  haze  was  beginning  to  soften 


THE   SECRET   IS    WHISPERED.  309 

the  landscape,  and  the  most  delicious  days  of  the  year  were 
lending  their  attraction  to  the  scenery  of  The  Mountain.  It 
was  not  very  singular  that  Elsie  should  be  lingering  in  her 
old  haunts,  from  which  the  change  of  season  must  soon  drive 
her.  But  Old  Sophy  saw  clearly  enough  that  some  internal 
conflict  was  going  on,  and  knew  very  well  that  it  must  have  its 
own  way  and  work  itself  out  as  it  best  could.  As  much  as 
looks  could  tell  Elsie  had  told  her.  She  had  said  in  words, 
to  be  sure,  that  she  could  not  love.  Something  warped  and 
thwarted  the  emotion  which  would  have  been  love  in  another, 
no  doubt;  but  that  such  an  emotion  was  striving  with  her 
against  all  malign  influences  which  interfered  with  it  the  old 
woman  had  a  perfect  certainty  in  her  own  mind. 

Everybody  who  has  observed  the  working  of  emotions  in 
persons  of  various  temperaments  knows  well  enough  that  they 
have  periods  of  incubation,  which  differ  with  the  individual, 
and  with  the  particular  cause  and  degree  of  excitement,  yet 
evidently  go  through  a  strictly  self-limited  series  of  evolu 
tions,  at  the  end  of  which,  their  result — an  act  of  violence,  a 
paroxysm  of  tears,  a  gradual  subsidence  into  repose,  or  what 
ever  it  may  be — declares  itself,  like  the  last  stage  of  an  attack 
of  fever  and  ague.  No  one  can  observe  children  without 
noticing  that  there  is  a  personal  equation,  to  use  the  astron 
omer's  language,  in  their  tempers,  so  that  one  sulks  an  hour 
over  an  offense  which  makes  another  a  fury  for  five  minutes, 
and  leaves  him  or  her  an  angel  when  it  is  over. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  Elsie  braided  her  long,  glossy, 
black  hair,  and  shot  a  golden  arrow  through  it.  She  dressed 
herself  with  more  than  usual  care,  and  came  down  in  the 
morning  superb  in  her  stormy  beauty.  The  brooding 
paroxysm  was  over,  or  at  least  her  passion  had  changed  its 
phase.  Her  father  saw  it  with  great  relief;  he  had  always 
many  fears  for  her  in  her  hours  and  days  of  gloom,  but,  for 
reasons  before  assigned,  had  felt  that  she  moist  be  trusted  to 
herself,  without  appealing  to  actual  restraint,  or  any  other 
supervision  than  such  as  Old  Sophy  could  exercise  without 
offense. 

She  went  off  at  the  accustomed  hour  to  the  school.  All  the 
girls  had  their  eyes  on  her.  None  so  keen  as  these  young 
misses  to  know  an  inward  movement  by  an  outward  sign  of 
•adornment :  if  they  have  not  as  many  signals  as  the  ships  that 
sail  the  great  seas,  there  is  not  an  end  of  ribbon  or  a  turn  of  a 


310  ELSIE   VENNER. 

ringlet  which  is  not  a  hieroglyphic  with  a  hidden  meaning 
to  these  little  cruisers  over  the  ocean  of  sentiment. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie  with  a  new  thought;  for  she 
was  more  sumptuously  arrayed  than  perhaps  ever  before  at  the 
school;  and  they  said  to  themselves  that  she  had  come  mean 
ing  to  draw  the  young  master's  eyes  upon  her.  That  was  it; 
what  else  could  it  be?  The  beautiful  cold  girl  with  the 
diamond  eyes  meant  to  dazzle  the  handsome  young  gentleman. 
He  would  be  afraid  to  love  her ;  it  couldn't  be  true,  that  which 
some  people  had  said  in  the  village;  she  wasn't  the  kind  of 
young  lady  to  make  Mr.  Langdon  happy.  Those  dark  people 
are  never  safe:  so  one  of  the  young  blondes  said  to  herself. 
Elsie  was  not  literary  enough  for  such  a  scholar:  so  thought 
Miss  Charlotte  Ann  Wood,  the  young  poetess.  She  couldn't 
have  a  good  temper,  with  those  scowling  eyebrows:  this  was 
the  opinion  of  several  broad-faced,  smiling  girls,  who  thought, 
each  in  her  own  snug  little  mental  sanctum,  that  if,  etc.,  etc., 
she  could  make  him  so  happy ! 

Elsie  had  none  of  the  still,  wicked  light  in  her  eyes,  that 
morning.  She  looked  gentle,  but  dreamy;  played  with  her 
books;  did  not  trouble  herself  with  any  of  the  exercises, — 
which  in  itself  was  not  very  remarkable,  as  she  was  always 
allowed,  under  some  pretext  or  other,  to  have  her  own 
way. 

The  school-hours  were  over  at  length.  The  girls  went  out, 
but  she  lingered  to  the  last.  She  then  came  up  to  Mr. 
Bernard,  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  as  if  to  ask  a  question. 

"  Will  you  walk  towards  my  home  with  me  to-day  ? "  she 
said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  startled  by  the  request,  put  in  such  a 
way.  He  had  a  presentiment  of  some  painful  scene  or  other. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  assure  her  that  it 
would  give  him  great  pleasure. 

So  they  walked  along  together  on  their  way  toward  the 
Dudley  mansion. 

"  I  have  no  friend,"  Elsie  said,  all  at  once.  "  Nothing  loves 
me  but  one  old  woman.  I  cannot  love  anybody.  They  tell 
me  there  is  something  in  my  eyes  that  draws  people  to  me 
and  makes  them  faint.  Look  into  them,  will  you  ?  " 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him.  It  was  very  pale,  and 
the  diamond  eyes  were  glittering  with  a  film,  such  as  beneath 
other  lids  would  have  rounded  into  a  tear. 


THE   SECKE?  IS   WHISPERED.  811 

"  Beautiful  eyes,  Elsie,"  he  said, — "  sometimes  very  pierc 
ing, — but  soft  now,  and  looking  as  if  there  were  something 
beneath  them  that  friendship  might  draw  out.  I  am  your 
friend,  Elsie.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  render  your  life 
happier." 

"  Love  me !  "  said  Elsie  Venner. 

What  shall  a  man  do,  when  a  woman  makes  such  a  demand,  j 
involving  such  an  avowal  ?     It  was  the  tenderest,  cruelest,  \ 
humblest  moment  of  Mr.  Bernard's  life.     He  turned  pale,  he 
trembled  almost,  as  if  he  had  been  a  woman  listening  to  her 
lover's  declaration. 

"  Elsie,"  he  said,  presently,  "  I  so  long  to  be  of  some  use  to 
you,  to  have  your  confidence  and  sympathy,  that  I  must  not 
let  you  say  or  do  anything  to  put  us  in  false  relations.  I  do 
love  you,  Elsie,  as  a  suffering  sister  with  sorrows  of  her  own, — 
as  one  whom  I  would  save  at  the  risk  of  my  happiness  and 
life, — as  one  who  needs  a  true  friend  more  than  any  of  all  the 
young  girls  I  have  known.  More  than  this  you  would  not 
ask  me  to  say.  You  have  been  through  excitement  and 
trouble  lately,  and  it  has  made  you  feel  such  a  need  more  than 
ever.  Give  me  your  hand,  dear  Elsie,  and  trust  me  that  I  will 
be  as  true  a  friend  to  you  as  if  we  were  children  of  the  same 
mother." 

Elsie  gave  him  her  hand  mechanically.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  cold  aura  shot  from  it  along  his  arm  and  chilled  the 
blood  running  through  his  heart.  He  pressed  it  gently,  looked 
at  her  with  a  face  full  of  grave  kindness  and  sad  interest,  then 
softly  relinquished  it. 

It  was  all  over  with  poor  Elsie.  They  walked  almost  in 
silence  the  rest  of  the  way.  Mr.  Bernard  left  her  at  the  gate 
of  the  mansion-house,  and  returned  with  sad  forebodings. 
Elsie  went  at  once  to  her  own  room,  and  did  not  come  from 
it  at  the  usual  hours.  At  last  Old  Sophy  began  to  be  alarmed 
about  her,  went  to  her  apartment,  and,  finding  the  door  un 
locked,  entered  cautiously.  She  found  Elsie  lying  on  her 
bed,  her  brows  strongly  contracted,  her  eyes  dull,  her  whole 
look  that  of  great  suffering.  Her  first  thought  was  that  she 
had  been  doing  herself  a  harm  by  some  deadly  means  or  other. 
But  Elsie  saw  her  fear,  and  reassured  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  there  is  nothing  wrong,  such  as  you  are 
thinking  of;  I  am  not  dying.  You  may  send  for  the  Doctor; 
perhaps  he  can  take  the  pain  from  my  head.  That  is  all  I 


312  ELSIE   VENDER. 

want  him  to  do.  There  is  no  use  in  the  pain,  that  I  know  of; 
if  he  can  stop  it,  let  him." 

So  they  sent  for  the  old  Doctor.  It  was  not  long  before 
the  solid  trot  of  Caustic,  the  old  bay  horse,  and  the  crashing 
of  the  gravel  under  the  wheels,  gave  notice  that  the  physician 
was  driving  up  the  avenue. 

The  old  Doctor  was  a  model  for  visiting  practitioners.  He 
always  came  into  the  sick  room  with  a  quiet,  cheerful  look, 
as  if  he  had  a  consciousness  that  he  was  bringing  some  sure 
relief  with  him.  The  way  a  patient  snatches  his  first  look 
at  his  doctor's  face,  to  see  whether  he  is  doomed,  whether  he  is 
reprieved,  whether  he  is  unconditionally  pardoned,  has  really 
something  terrible  about  it.  It  is  only  to  be  met  by  an  im 
perturbable  mask  of  serenity,  proof  against  anything  and 
everything  in  a  patient's  aspect.  The  physician  whose  face 
reflects  his  patient's  condition  like  a  mirror  may  do  well 
enough  to  examine  people  for  a  life-insurance  office,  but  does 
not  belong  to  the  sick  room.  The  old  Doctor  did  not  keep 
people  waiting  in  dread  suspense,  while  he  stayed  talking 
about  the  case, — the  patient  all  the  time  thinking  that  he  and 
the  friends  are  discussing  some  alarming  symptom  or  formid 
able  operation  which  he  himself  is  by-and-by  to  hear  of. 

He  was  in  Elsie's  room  almost  before  she  knew  he  was  in 
the  house.  He  came  to  her  bedside  in  such  a  natural,  quiet 
way,  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  only  a  friend  who  had 
dropped  in  for  a  moment  to  say  a  pleasant  word.  Yet  he  was 
very  uneasy  about  Elsie  until  he  had  seen  her ;  he  never  knew 
what  might  happen  to  her  or  those  about  her,  and  came  pre 
pared  for  the  worst. 

"  Sick,  my  child  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  very  soft,  low  voice. 

Elsie  nodded,  without  speaking. 

The  Doctor  took  her  hand, — whether  with  professional 
views,  or  only  in  a  friendly  way,  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
tell.  So  he  sat  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  her  all  the  time 
with  a  kind  of  fatherly  interest,  but  with  it  all  noting  how 
she  lay,  how  she  breathed,  her  color,  her  expression,  all  that 
teaches  the  practiced  eye  so  much  without  a  single  question 
being  asked.  He  saw  she  was  in  suffering,  and  said 
presently, — 

"  You  have  pain  somewhere;  where  is  it?  " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

As  she  was  not  disposed  to  talk,  he  watched  her  for  a  while, 


THE   SECKET   IS    WHISPERED.  313 

questioned  Old  Sophy  shrewdly  a  few  minutes,  and  so  made 
up  his  mind  as  to  the  probable  cause  of  disturbance  and  the 
proper  remedies  to  be  used. 

Some  very  silly  people  thought  the  old  Doctor  did  not 
believe  in  medicine,  because  he  gave  less  than  certain  poor 
half-taught  creatures  in  the  smaller  neighboring  towns,  who 
took  advantage  of  people's  sickness  to  disgust  and  disturb 
them  with  all  manner  of  ill-smelling  and  ill-behaving  drugs. 
In  truth,  he  hated  to  give  anything  noxious  or  loathsome  to 
those  who  were  uncomfortable  enough  already,  unless  he  was 
very  sure  it  would  do  good, — in  which  case,  he  never  played 
with  drugs,  but  gave  good,  honest,  efficient  doses.  Sometimes 
he  lost  a  family  of  the  more  boorish  sort,  because  they  did  not 
think  they  got  their  money's  worth  out  of  him,  unless  they 
had  something  more  than  a  taste  of  everything  he  carried  in 
his  saddle-bags. 

He  ordered  some  remedies  which  he  thought  would  relieve 
Elsie,  and  left  her,  saying  he  would  call  the  next  day,  hoping 
to  find  her  better.  But  the  next  day  came,  and  the  next,  and 
still  Elsie  was  on  her  bed, — feverish,  restless,  wakeful,  silent. 
At  night  she  tossed  about  and  wandered,  and  it  became  at 
length  apparent  that  there  was  a  settled  attack,  something  like 
what  they  called  formerly,  a  "  nervous  fever." 

On  the  fourth  day  she  was  more  restless  than  common. 
One  of  the  women  of  the  house  came  in  to  help  to  take  care 
of  her ;  but  she  showed  an  aversion  to  her  presence. 

"  Send  me  Helen  Darley,"  she  said,  at  last. 

The  old  Doctor  told  them,  that,  if  possible,  they  must  in 
dulge  this  fancy  of  hers.  The  caprices  of  sick  people  were 
never  to  be  despised,  least  of  all  of  such  persons  as  Elsie,  when 
rendered  irritable  and  exacting  by  pain  and  weakness. 

So  a  message  was  sent  to  Mr.  Silas  Peckham,  at  the  Apol- 
linean  Institute,  to  know  if  he  could  not  spare  Miss  Helen 
Darley  for  a  few  days,  if  required,  to  give  her  attention  to  a 
young  lady  who  attended  his  school  and  who  was  now  lying 
ill, — no  other  person  than  the  daughter  of  Dudley  Venner. 

A  mean  man  never  agrees  to  anything  without  deliberately 
turning  it  over,  so  that  he  may  see  its  dirty  side,  and,  if  he 
can,  sweating  the  coin  he  pays  for  it.  If  an  archangel  should 
offer  to  save  his  soul  for  sixpence,  he  would  try  to  find  a  six 
pence  with  a  hole  in  it.  A  gentleman  says  yes  to  a  great 
many  things  without  stopping  to  think:  a  shabby  fellow  is 


314  ELSIE   VENHEK. 

known  by  his  caution  in  answering  questions,  for  fear  of 
compromising  his  pocket  or  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  looked  very  grave  at  the  request.  The 
dooties  of  Miss  Darley  at  the  Institoot  were  important,  very 
important.  He  paid  her  large  sums  of  money  for  her  time, — 
more  than  she  could  expect  to  get  in  any  other  institootion 
for  the  edoocation  of  female  youth.  A  deduction  from  her 
selary  would  be  necessary,  in  case  she  should  retire  from  the 
sphere  of  her  dooties  for  a  season.  He  should  be  put  to  extry 
expense,  and  have  to  perform  additional  labors  himself.  He 
would  consider  of  the  matter.  If  any  agreement  could  be 
made,  he  would  send  word  to  Squire  Venner's  folks. 

"  Miss  Darley,"  said  Silas  Peckham,  "  the'  's  a  message 
from  Squire  Venner's  that  his  daughter  wants  you  down  at 
the  mansion-house  to  see  her.  She's  got  a  fever,  so  they  in 
form  me.  If  it's  any  kind  of  ketchin'  fever,  of  course  you 
won't  think  of  goin'  near  the  mansion-house.  If  Doctor  Kit- 
tredge  says  it's  safe,  perfec'ly  safe,  I  can't  objec'  to  your 
goin',  on  sech  conditions  as  seem  to  be  fair  to  all  concerned. 
You  will  give  up  your  pay  for  the  whole  time  you  are  ab 
sent, — portions  of  days  to  be  caounted  as  whole  days.  You 
will  be  charged  with  board  the  same  as  if  you  eat  your 
victuals  with  the  household.  The  victuals  are  of  no  use  after 
they're  cooked  to  be  eat,  and  your  bein'  away  is  no  savin' 
to  our  folks.  I  shall  charge  you  a  reasonable  compensation 
for  the  demage  to  the  school  by  the  absence  of  a  teacher.  If 
Miss  Crabs  undertakes  any  dooties  belongin'  to  your  depart 
ment  of  instruction,  she  will  look  to  you  for  sech  peeooniary 
considerations  as  you  may  agree  upon  between  you.  On  these 
conditions  I  am  willin'  to  give  my  consent  to  your  temporary 
absence  from  the  post  of  dooty.  I  will  step  down  to  Doctor 
Kittredge's,  myself,  and  make  inquiries  as  to  the  natur'  of 
the  complaint." 

Mr.  Peckham  took  up  a  rusty  and  very  narrow-brimmed 
hat,  which  he  cocked  upon  one  side  of  his  head,  with  an  air 
peculiar  to  the  rural  gentry.  It  was  the  hour  when  the 
Doctor  expected  to  be  in  his  office,  unless  he  had  some  special 
call  which  kept  him  from  home. 

He  found  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  just  taking 
leave  of  the  Doctor.  His  hand  was  on  the  pit  of  his  stomach, 
and  his  countenance  was  expressive  of  inward  uneasiness. 

"  Shake  it  before  using,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  and  the  sooner 


THE    SECRET    IS    WHISPERED.  315 

you  make  up  your  mind  to  speak  right  out,  the  better  it  will 
be  for  your  digestion. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Peckham!  Walk  in,  Mr.  Peckham!  Nobody 
sick  up  at  the  school,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  The  haalth  of  the  school  is  fust-rate,"  replied  Mr.  Peck- 
ham.  "  The  sitooation  is  uncommonly  favorable  to  saloo- 
brity."  (These  last  words  were  from  the  Annual  Report  of 
the  past  year) .  "  Providence  has  spared  our  female  youth 
in  a  remarkable  measure.  I've  come  with  reference  to  another 
consideration.  Doctor  Kittredge,  is  there  any  ketchin'  com 
plaint  goin'  about  in  the  village  ? " 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  should  say  there  was  some 
thing  of  that  sort.  Measles.  Mumps.  And  Sin, — that's 
always  catching." 

The  old  Doctor's  eye  twinkled;  once  in  a  while  he  had  his 
little  touch  of  humor. 

Silas  Peckham  slanted  his  eye  up  suspiciously  at  the  Doc 
tor,  as  if  he  was  getting  some  kind  of  advantage  over  him. 

That  is  the  way  people  of  his  constitution  are  apt  to  take  a 
bit  of  pleasantry. 

"  I  don't  mean  sech  things,  Doctor ;  I  mean  fevers.  Is 
there  any  ketchin'  fevers — bilious,  or  nervous,  or  typhus,  or 
whatever  you  call  'em — now  goin'  round  this  village  ?  That's 
what  I  want  to  ascertain,  if  there's  no  impropriety." 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  Silas  through  his  spectacles. 

"  Hard  and  sour  as  a  green  cider-apple,"  he  thought  to  him 
self.  "  No,"  he  said, — "  I  don't  know  any  such  cases." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Elsie  Vernier?"  asked  Silas, 
sharply,  as  if  he  expected  to  have  him  this  time. 

"  A  mild  feverish  attack,  I  should  call  it  in  anybody  else ; 
but  she  has  a  peculiar  constitution,  and  I  never  feel  so  safe 
about  her  as  I  should  about  most  people." 

"  Anything  ketchin'  about  it  ?  "  Silas  asked,  cunningly. 

"  No,  indeed !  "  said  the  Doctor, — "  catching  ? — no, — what 
put  that  into  your  head,  Mr.  Peckham  ?  " 

"  Well,  Doctor,"  the  conscientious  Principal  answered,  "  I 
naturally  feel  a  graat  responsibility,  a  very  graat  responsi 
bility,  for  the  noomerous  and  lovely  young  ladies  committed 
to  my  charge.  It  has  been  a  question,  whether  one  of  my 
assistants  should  go,  accordin'  to  request,  to  stop  with  Miss 
Venner  for  a  season.  Nothin'  restrains  my  givin'  my  full 
and  free  consent  to  her  goin'  but  the  fear  lest  contagious 


316  ELSIE   VENNER. 

maladies  should  be  introdooced  among  those  lovely  female 
youth.  I  shall  abide  by  your  opinion, — I  understan'  you  to 
say  distinc'ly,  her  complaint  is  not  ketchin'  ? — and  urge  upon 
Miss  Darley  to  fulfill  her  dooties  to  a  sufferin'  fellow-creature 
at  any  cost  to  myself  and  my  establishment.  We  shall  miss 
her  very  much ;  but  it  is  a  good  cause,  and  she  shall  go, — and 
I  shall  trust  that  Providence  will  enable  us  to  spare  her  with 
out  permanent  demage  to  the  interests  of  the  Institootion." 

Saying  this,  the  excellent  Principal  departed,  with  his  rusty 
narrow-brimmed  hat  leaning  over,  as  if  it  had  a  six-knot 
breeze  abeam,  and  its  gunwale  (so  to  speak)  was  dipping  into 
his  coat-collar.  He  announced  the  result  of  his  inquiries  to 
Helen,  who  had  received  a  brief  note  in  the  mean  time  from 
a  poor  relation  of  Elsie's  mother,  then  at  the  mansion-house, 
informing  her  of  the  critical  situation  of  Elsie  and  of  her 
urgent  desire  that  Helen  should  be  with  her.  She  could  not 
hesitate.  She  blushed  as  she  thought  of  the  comments  that 
might  be  made;  but  what  were  such  considerations  in  a 
matter  of  life  and  death?  She  could  not  stop  to  make  terms 
with  Silas  Peckham.  She  must  go.  He  might  fleece  her, 
if  he  would;  she  would  not  complain, — not  even  to  Bernard, 
who,  she  knew,  would  bring  the  Principal  to  terms,  if  she 
gave  the  least  hint  of  his  intended  extortions. 

'So  Helen  made  up  her  bundle  of  clothes  to  be  sent  after  her, 
took  a  book  or  two  with  her  to  help  her  pass  the  time,  and 
departed  for  the  Dudley  mansion.  It  was  with  a  great  inward 
effort  that  she  undertook  the  sisterly  task  which  was  thus 
forced  upon  her.  She  had  a  kind  of  terror  of  Elsie ;  and  the 
thought  of  having  charge  of  her,  of  being  alone  with  her,  of 
coming  under  the  full  influence  of  those  diamond  eyes, — if, 
indeed,  their  light  were  not  dimmed  by  suffering  and  weari 
ness, — was  one  she  shrank  from.  But  what  could  she  do? 
It  might  be  a  turning-point  in  the  life  of  the  poor  girl;  and 
she  must  overcome  all  her  fears,  all  her  repugnance,  and  go 
to  her  rescue. 

"  Is  Helen  come  ? "  said  Elsie,  when  she  heard,  with  her 
fine  sense  quickened  by  the  irritability  of  sickness,  a  light 
footfall  on  the  stair,  with  a  cadence  unlike  that  of  any  inmate 
of  the  house. 

"  It's  a  strange  woman's  step,"  said  Old  Sophy,  who,  with 
her  exclusive  love  for  Elsie,  was  naturally  disposed  to  jealousy 
of  a  new-comer.  "  Let  Ol'  Sophy  set  at  th'  foot  o'  th'  bed, 


THE    SECKET   IS    WHISPEEED.  317 

if  th'  young  missis  sets  by  th'  piller, — won'  y',  darlin'?  The' 
's  nobody  that's  white  can  love  y'  as  th'  ol'  black  woman  does ; 
— don'  sen'  her  away,  now,  there's  a  dear  soul !  " 

Elsie  motioned  her  to  sit  in  the  place  she  had  pointed 
to,  and  Helen  at  that  moment  entered  the  room.  Dudley 
Vernier  followed  her. 

"  She  is  your  patient,"  he  said,  "  except  while  the  Doctor  is 
here.  She  had  been  longing  to  have  you  with  her,  and  we 
shall  expect  you  to  make  her  well  in  a  few  days."" 

So  Helen  Darley  found  herself  established  in  the  most  un 
expected  manner  as  an  inmate  of  the  Dudley  mansion.  She 
sat  with  Elsie  most  of  the  time,  by  day  and  by  night,  soothing 
her,  and  trying  to  enter  into  her  confidence  and  affections, 
if  it  should  prove  that  this  strange  creature  was  really  capable 
of  truly  sympathetic  emotions. 

What  was  this  unexplained  something  which  came  between 
her  soul  and  that  of  every  other  human  being  with  whom 
she  was  in  relations?  Helen  perceived,  or  rather  felt,  that 
she  had,  folded  up  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  a  true  womanly 
nature.  Through  the  cloud  that  darkened  her  aspect,  now 
and  then  a  ray  would  steal  forth,  which,  like  the  smile  of 
stern  and  solemn  people,  was  all  the  more  impressive  from  its 
contrast  with  the  expression  she  wore  habitually.  It  might 
well  be  that  pain  and  fatigue  had  changed  her  aspect;  but, 
at  any  rate,  Helen  looked  into  her  eyes  without  that  nervous 
agitation  which  their  cold  glitter  had  produced  on  her  when 
they  were  full  of  their  natural  light.  She  felt  sure  that  her 
mother  must  have  been  a  lovely,  gentle  woman.  There  were" 
gleams  of  a  beautiful  nature  shining  through  some  ill-defined 
medium  which  disturbed  and  made  them  nicker  and  waver, 
as  distant  images  do  when  seen  through  the  rippling  upward 
currents  of  heated  air.  She  loved,  in  her  own  way,  the  old 
black  woman,  and  seemed  to  keep  up  a  kind  of  silent  com 
munication  with  her,  as  if  they  did  not  require  the  use  of 
speech.  She  appeared  to  be  tranquilized  by  the  presence  of 
Helen,  and  loved  to  have  her  seated  at  the  bedside.  Yet 
something,  whatever  it  was,  prevented  her  from  opening  her 
heart  to  her  kind  companion ;  and  even  now  there  were  times 
when  she  would  lie  looking  at  her,  with  such  a  still,  watchful, 
almost  dangerous  expression,  that  Helen  would  sigh,  and 
change  her  place,  as  persons  do  whose  breath  some  cunning 
orator  has  been  sucking  out  of  them  with  his  spongy  elo- 


318  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

quence,  so  that,  when  he  stops,  they  must  get  some  air  and 
stir  about,  or  they  feel  as  if  they  should  be  half  smothered 
and  palsied. 

It  was  too  much  to  keep  guessing  what  was  the  meaning 
of  all  this.  Helen  determined  to  ask  Old  Sophy  some  ques 
tions  which  might  probably  throw  light  upon  her  doubts.  She 
took  the  opportunity  one  evening  when  Elsie  was  lying  asleep 
and  they  were  both  sitting  at  some  distance  from  her  bed. 

"  Tell  me,  Sophy,"  she  said,  "  was  Elsie  always  as  shy  as 
she  seems  to  be  now,  in  talking  with  those  to  whom  she  is 
friendly?" 

"  Always  jes'  so,  Miss  Darlin.',  ever  sence  she  was  little  chil.' 
When  she  was  five,  six  year  old,  she  lisp  some, — call  me 
Thophy;  that  make  her  kin'  o'  'shamed,  perhaps:  after  she 
grow  up,  she  never  lisp,  but  she  kin'  o'  got  the  way  o'  not 
talkin'  much.  Fac'  is,  she  don'  like  talkin'  as  common  gals 
do,  'excep'  jes'  once  in  a  while  wi'  some  partic'lar  folks, — 'n' 
then  not  much." 

"How  old  is  Elsie?" 

"  Eighteen  year  this  las'  September." 

"  How  long  ago  did  her  mother  die  ? "  Helen  asked,  with 
a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  Eighteen  year  ago  this  October,"  said  Old  Sophy. 

Helen  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  whispered,  al 
most  inaudibly, — for  her  voice  appeared  to  fail  her, 

"  What  did  her  mother  die  of,  Sophy  ?  " 

The  old  woman's  small  eyes  dilated  until  a  ring  of  white 
showed  round  their  beady  centers.  She  caught  Helen  by  the 
hand  and  clung  to  it,  as  if  in  fear.  She  looked  round  at 
Elsie,  who  lay  sleeping,  as  if  she  might  be  listening.  Then 
she  drew  Helen  towards  her  and  led  her  softly  out  of  the 
room. 

"  'Sh ! — 'sh !  "  she  said,  as  soon  as  they  were  outside  the 
door.  "  Don'  never  speak  in  this  house  'bout  what  Elsie's 
mother  died  of ! "  she  said.  "  Nobody  never  says  nothin' 
'bout  it.  Oh,  God  has  made  Ugly  Things  wi'  death  in  their 
mouths,  Miss  Darlin',  an'  He  knows  what  they're  for;  but  my 
poor  Elsie! — to  have  her  blood  changed  in  her  before —  -  It 
was  in  July  Mistress  got  her  -death,  but  she  liv'  till  three 
weeks  after  my  poor  Elsie  was  born." 

She  could  speak  no  more.  She  had  said  enough.  Helen 
remembered  the  stories  she  had  heard  on  coming  to  the  vil- 


THE    SECRET   IS    WHISPERED.  319 

lage,  and  among  them  one  referred  to  in  an  early  chapter  of 
this  narrative.  All  the  unaccountable  looks  and  tastes  and 
ways  of  Elsie  came  back  to  her  in  the  light  of  an  ante-natal 
impression  which  had  mingled  an  alien  element  in  her  nature. 
She  knew  the  secret  of  the  fascination  which  looked  out  of  her 
cold,  glittering  eyes.  She  knew  the  significance  of  the  strange 
repulsion  which  she  felt  in  her  own  intimate  consciousness 
underlying  the  inexplicable  attraction  which  drew  her  towards 
the  young  girl  in  spite  of  this  repugnance.  'She  began  to 
look  with  new  feelings  on  the  contradictions  in  her  moral 
nature, — the  longing  for  sympathy,  as  shown  by  her  wishing 
for  Helen's  company,  and  the  impossibility  of  passing  beyond 
the  cold  circle  of  isolation  within  which  she  had  her  being. 
The  fearful  truth  of  that  instinctive  feeling  of  hers,  that 
there  was  something  not  human^looking  out  of  Elsie's  eyes, 
came  upon  her  with  a  sudden  flash  of  penetrating  conviction. 
There  were  two  warring  principles  in  that  superb  organiza 
tion  and  proud  soul.  One  made  her  a  woman,  with  all  a 
woman's  powers  and  longings.  The  other  chilled  all  the 
currents  of  outlet  for  her  emotions.  It  made  her  tearless  and 
mute,  when  another  woman  would  have  wept  and  pleaded. 
And  it  infused  into  her  soul  something — it  was  cruel  now  to 
call  it  malice — which  was  still  and  watchful  and  dangerous, — 
which  waited  its  opportunity,  and  then  shot  like  an  arrow 
from  its  bow  out  of  the  coil  of  brooding  premeditation.  Even 
those  who  had  never  seen  the  white  scars  on  Dick  Venner's 
wrist,  or  heard  the  half -told  story  of  her  supposed  attempt  to 
do  a  graver  mischief,  knew  well  enough  by  looking  at  her 
that  she  was  one  of  the  creatures  not  to  be  tampered  with, — 
silent  in  anger  and  swift  in  vengeance. 

Helen  could  not  return  to  the  bedside  at  once  after  this 
communication.  It  was  with  altered  eyes  that  she  must  look 
on  the  poor  girl,  the  victim  of  such  an  unheard-of  fatality. 
All  was  explained  to  her  now.  But  it  opened  such  depths  of 
solemn  thought  in  her  awakened  consciousness,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  whole  mystery  of  human  life  were  coming  up  again 
before  her  for  trial  and  judgment.  "  Oh,"  she  thought,  "  if, 
while  the  will  lies  sealed  in  its  fountain,  it  may  be  poisoned  at 
its  very  source,  so  that  it  shall  flow  dark  and  deadly  through  its 
whole  course,  who  are  we  that  we  should  judge  our  fellow- 
creatures  by  ourselves  ? "  Then  came  the  terrible  question, 
how  far  the  elements  themselves  are  capable  of  perverting  the 


320  ELSIE    VENNER. 

moral  nature:  if  valor,  and  justice,  and  truth,  the  strength 
of  man  and  the  virtue  of  woman,  may  not  be  poisoned  out  of 
a  race  by  the  food  of  the  Australian  in  his  forest, — by  the 
foul  air  and  darkness  of  the  Christians  cooped  up  in  the 
"  tenement-houses  "  close  by  those  who  live  in  the  palaces  of 
the  great  cities  ? 

She  walked  out  into  the  garden,  lost  in  thought  upon  these 
dark  and  deep  matters.  Presently  she  heard  a  step  behind 
her,  and  Elsie's  father  came  up  and  joined  her.  Since  his 
introduction  to  Helen  at  the  distinguished  tea-party  given 
by  the  Widow  Rowens,  and  before  her  coming  to  sit  with 
Elsie,  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  had  in  the  most  accidental  way  in 
the  world  met  her  on  several  occasions:  once  after  church, 
when  she  happened  to  be  caught  in  a  slight  shower  and  he 
insisted  on  holding  his  umbrella  over  her  on  her  way  home ; — 
once  at  a  small  party  at  one  of  the  mansion-houses,  where  the 
quick-eyed  lady  of  the  house  had  a  wonderful  knack  of  bring 
ing  people  together  who  liked  to  see  each  other; — perhaps 
at  other  times  and  places;  but  of  this  there  is  no  certain 
evidence. 

They  naturally  spoke  of  Elsie,  her  illness,  and  the  aspect 
it  had  taken.  But  Helen  noticed  in  all  that  Dudley  Venner 
said  about  his  daughter  a  morbid  sensitiveness,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  an  aversion  to  saying  much  about  her  physical  con 
dition  or  her  peculiarities, — a  wish  to  feel  and  speak  as  a 
parent  should,  and  yet  a  shrinking,  as  if  there  were  something 
about  Elsie  which  he  could  not  bear  to  dwell  upon.  She 
thought  she  saw  through  all  this,  and  she  could  interpret  it 
all  charitably.  There  were  circumstances  about  his  daughter 
which  recalled  the  great  sorrow  of  his  life ;  it  was  not  strange 
that  this  perpetual  reminder  should  in  some  degree  have 
modified  his  feelings  as  a  father.  But  what  a  life  he  must 
have  been  leading  for  so  many  years,  with  this  perpetual 
source  of  distress  which  he  could  not  name !  Helen  knew  well 
enough,  now,  the  meaning  of  the  sadness  which  had  left  such 
traces  in  his  features  and  tones,  and  it  made  her  feel  very 
kindly  and  compassionate  toward  him. 

'So  they  walked  over  the  crackling  leaves  in  the  garden, 
between  the  lines  of  box  breathing  its  fragrance  of  eternity  ;— 
for  this  is  one  of  the  odors  which  carry  us  out  of  time  into 
the  abysses  of  the  unbeginning  past;  if  we  ever  lived  on 
another  ball  of  stone  than  this,  it  must  be  that  there  was  box 


THE    SECRET    IS    WHISPERED.  321 

growing  on  it.  So  they  walked,  finding  their  <way  softly  to 
each  other's  sorrows  and  sympathies,  each  matching  some 
counterpart  to  the  other's  experience  of  life,  and  startled  to 
see  how  the  different,  yet  parallel,  lessons  they  had  been 
taught  by  suffering  had  led  them  step  by  step  to  the  same 
serene  acquiescence  in  the  orderings  of  that  Supreme  Wis 
dom  which  they  both  devoutly  recognized. 

Old  Sophy  was  at  the  window  and  saw  them  walking  up 
and  down  the  garden-alleys.  She  watched  them  as  her 
grandfather  the  savage  watched  the  figures  that  moved  among 
the  trees  when  a  hostile  tribe  was  lurking  about  his  mountain. 

"  There'll  be  a  weddin'  in  the  ol'  house,"  she  said,  "  before 
there's  roses  on  them  bushes,  ag'in.  But  it  won'  be  my  poor 
Elsie's  weddin',  V  OF  Sophy  won'  be  there." 

When  Helen  prayed  in  the  silence  of  her  soul  that  evening, 
it  was  not  that  Elsie's  life  might  be  spared.  She  dared  not 
ask  that  as  a  favor  of  Heaven.  What  could  life  be  to  her  but 
a  perpetual  anguish,  and  to  those  about  her  an  ever-present 
terror  ?  Might  she  but  be  so  influenced  by  divine  grace,  that 
what  in  her  was  most  truly  human,  most  purely  woman-like, 
should  overcome  the  dark,  cold,  unmentionable  instinct  which  v 
had  pervaded  her  being  like  a  subtile  poison:  that  was  all 
she  could  ask,  and  the  rest  she  left  to  a  higher  wisdom  and 
tenderer  love  than  her  own. 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

THE    WHITE    ASH. 

When  Helen  returned  to  Elsie's  bedside,  it  was  with  a  new 
and  still  deeper  feeling  of  sympathy,  such  as  the  story  told 
by  Old  Sophy  might  well  awaken.  She  understood,  as  never 
before,  the  singular  fascination  and  as  singular  repulsion 
which  she  had  long  felt  in  Elsie's  presence.  It  had  not  been 
without  a  great  effort  that  she  had  forced  herself  to  become 
the  almost  constant  attendant  of  the  sick  girl;  and  now  she 
was  learning,  but  not  for  the  first  time,  the  blessed  truth 
which  so  many  good  women  have  found  out  for  themselves, 
that  the  hardest  duty  bravely  performed  soon  becomes  a 
habit,  and  tends  in  due  time  to  transform  itself  into  a 
pleasure. 

The  old  Doctor  was  beginning  to  look  graver,  in  spite  of 
himself.  The  fever,  if  such  it  was,  went  gently  forward, 
wasting  the  young  girl's  powers  of  resistance  from  day  to 
day ;  yet  she  showed  no  disposition  to  take  nourishment,  and 
seemed  literally  to  be  living  on  air.  It  was  remarkable  that 
with  all  this  her  look  was  almost  natural,  and  her  features 
were  hardly  sharpened  so  as  to  suggest  that  her  life  was  burn 
ing  away.  He  did  not  like  this,  nor  various  other  unobtru 
sive  signs  of  danger  which  his  practiced  eye  detected.  A 
very  small  matter  might  turn  the  balance  which  held  life  and 
death  poised  against  each  other.  He  surrounded  her  with 
precautions,  that  Nature  might  have  every  opportunity  of 
cunningly  shifting  the  weights  from  the  scale  of  death  to  the 
scale  of  life,  as  she  will  often  do,  if  not  rudely  disturbed  or 
interfered  with. 

Little  tokens  of  good- will  and  kind  remembrance  were  con 
stantly  coming  to  her  from  the  girls  in  the  school  and  the 
good  people  in  the  village.  Some  of  the  mansion-house  peo 
ple  obtained  rare  flowers  which  they  sent  her,  and  her  table 
was  covered  with  fruits  which  tempted  her  in  vain.  Several 
of  the  schoolgirls  wished  to  make  her  a  basket  of  their  own 
handiwork,  and,  filling  it  with  autumnal  flowers,  to  send  it 


THE   WHITE   ASH.  323 

as  a  joint  offering.  Mr.  Bernard  found  out  their  project 
accidentally,  and,  wishing  to  have  his  share  in  it  brought 
home  from  one  of  his  long  walks  some  boughs  full  of  vari 
ously  tinted  leaves,  such  as  were  still  clinging  to  the  stricken 
trees.  With  these  he  brought  also  some  of  the  already  fallen 
leaflets  of  the  white  ash,  remarkable  for  their  rich  olive- 
purple  color,  forming  a  beautiful  contrast  with  some  of  the 
lighter-hued  leaves.  It  so  happened  that  this  particular  tree, 
the  white  ash,  did  not  grow  upon  The  Mountain,  and  the 
leaflets  were  more  welcome  for  their  comparative  rarity.  So 
the  girls  made  their  basket,  and  the  floor  of  it  they  covered 
with  the  rich  olive-purple  leaflets.  Such  late  flowers  as  they 
could  lay  their  hands  upon  served  to  fill  it,  and  with  many 
kindly  messages  they  sent  it  to  Miss  Elsie  Venner  at  the 
Dudley  mansion-house. 

Elsie  was  sitting  up  in  her  bed  when  it  came,  languid,  but 
tranquil,  and  Helen  was  by  her,  as  usual,  holding  her  hand, 
which  was  strangely  cold,  Helen  thought,  for  one  who  was 
said  to  have  some  kind  of  fever.  The  schoolgirls'  basket 
was  brought  in  with  its  messages  of  love  and  hopes  for  speedy 
recovery.  Old  Sophy  was  delighted  to  see  that  it  pleased 
Elsie,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  before  her.  Elsie  began  looking 
at  the  flowers  and  taking  them  from  the  basket,  that  she 
might  see  the  leaves.  All  at  once  she  appeared  to  be  agi 
tated  ;  she  looked  at  the  basket, — then  around,  as  if  there  was 
some  fearful  presence  about  her  which  she  was  searching 
for  with  her  eager  glances.  She  took  out  the  flowers,  one  by 
one,  her  breath  growing  hurried,  her  eyes  staring,  her  hands 
trembling,  till,  as  she  came  near  the  bottom  of  the  basket, 
she  flung  out  all  the  rest  with  a  hasty  movement,  looked 
upon  the  olive-purple  leaflets  as  if  paralyzed  for  a  moment, 
shrunk  up,  as  it  were,  into  herself  in  a  curdling  terror, 
dashed  the  basket  from  her,  and  fell  back  senseless,  with  a 
faint  cry  which  chilled  the  blood  of  the  startled  listeners  at 
her  bedside. 

"  Take  it  away ! — take  it  away ! — quick !  "  said  Old  Sophy, 
as  she  hastened  to  her  mistress's  pillow.  "It's  the  leaves  of 
the  tree  that  was  always  death  to  her, — take  it  away!  She 
can't  live  wi'  it  in  the  room !  " 

The  poor  old  woman  began  chafing  Elsie's  hands,  and 
Helen  tried  to  rouse  her  with  hartshorn,  while  a  third  fright 
ened  attendant  gathered  up  the  flowers  and  the  basket  and 


824  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

carried  them  out  of  the  apartment.  She  came  to  herself 
after  a  time,  but  exhausted  and  then  wandering.  In  her 
delirium  she  talked  constantly  as  if  she  were  in  a  cave,  with 
such  exactness  of  circumstance  that  Helen  could  not  doubt  at 
all  that  she  had  some  such  retreat  among  the  rocks  of  The 
Mountain,  probably  fitted  up  in  her  own  fantastic  way,  where 
she  sometimes  hid  herself  from  all  human  eyes,  and  of  the 
entrance  to  which  she  alone  possessed  the  secret. 

All  this  passed  away,  and  left  her,  of  course,  weaker  than 
before.  But  this  was  not  the  only  influence  the  unexplained 
paroxysm  had  left  behind  it.  From  this  time  forward  there 
was  a  change  in  her  whole  expression  and  her  manner.  The 
shadows  ceased  flitting  over  her  features,  and  the  old  woman, 
who  watched  her  from  day  to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour  as  a 
mother  watches  her  child,  saw  the  likeness  she  bore  to  her 
mother  coming  forth  more  and  more,  as  the  cold  glitter  died 
out  of  the  diamond  eyes,  and  the  stormy  scowl  disappeared 
from  the  dark  brows  and  low  forehead. 

With  all  the  kindness  and  indulgence  her  father  had  be 
stowed  upon  her,  Elsie  had  never  felt  that  he  loved  her.  The 
reader  knows  well  enough  what  fatal  recollections  and  associ 
ations  had  frozen  up  the  springs  of  natural  affection  in  his 
breast.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  he  would  not  do  for 
Elsie.  He  had  sacrificed  his  whole  life  to  her.  His  very 
seeming  carelessness  about  restraining  her  was  all  calculated ; 
he  knew  that  restraint  would  produce  nothing  but  utter 
alienation.  Just  so  far  as  she  allowed  him,  he  shared  her 
studies,  her  few  pleasures,  her  thoughts;  but  she  was  essen 
tially  solitary  and  uncommunicative.  No  person,  as  was  said 
long  ago,  could  judge  him, — because  his  task  was  not  merely 
difficult,  but  simply  impracticable  to  human  powers.  A 
nature  like  Elsie's  had  necessarily  to  be  studied  by  itself,  and 
to  be  followed  in  its  laws  where  it  could  not  be  led. 

Every  day,  at  different  hours,  during  the  whole  of  his 
daughter's  illness,  Dudley  Venner  had  sat  by  her,  doing  all 
he  could  to  soothe  and  please  her.  Always  the  same  thin  film 
of  some  emotional  non-conductor  between  them ;  always  that 
kind  of  habitual  regard  and  family-interest,  mingled  with 
the  deepest  pity  on  one  side  and  a  sort  of  respect  on  the  other, 
which  never  warmed  into  outward  evidences  of  affection. 

It  was  after  this  occasion,  when  she  had  been  so  profoundly 
agitated  by  a  seemingly  insignificant  cause,  that  her  father 


THE   WHITE   ASH.  325 

and  Old  Sophy  were  sitting,  one  at  one  side  of  her  bed  and 
one  at  the  other.  She  had  fallen  into  a  light  slumber.  As 
they  were  looking  at  her,  the  same  thought  came  into  both 
their  minds  at  the  same  moment.  Old  Sophy  spoke  for 
both,  as  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  It's  her  mother's  look, — it's  her  mother's  own  face  right 
over  again, — she  never  look'  so  before, — the  Lord's  hand  is 
on  her !  His  will  be  done !  " 

When  Elsie  woke  and  lifted  her  languid  eyes  upon  her 
father's  face,  she  saw  in  it  a  tenderness,  a  depth  of  affection, 
such  as  she  remembered  at  rare  moments  of  her  childhood, 
when  she  had  won  him  to  her  by  some  unusual  gleam  of 
sunshine  in  her  fitful  temper. 

"  Elsie,  dear,"  he  said,  "  we  were  thinking  how  much  your 
expression  was  sometimes  like  that  of  your  sweet  mother. 
If  you  could  but  have  seen  her,  so  as  to  remember  her !  " 

The  tender  look  and  tone,  the  yearning  of  the  daughter's 
heart  for  the  mother  she  had  never  seen,  save  only  with  the 
unfixed,  undistinguishing  eyes  of  earliest  infancy,  perhaps 
the  underthought  that  she  might  soon  rejoin  her  in  another 
state  of  being, — all  came  upon  her  with  a  sudden  overflow  of 
feeling  which  broke  through  all  the  barriers  between  her 
heart  and  her  eyes,  and  ]EUsie  .w.ept.  It  seemed  to  her  father 
as  if  the  malign  influence — evil  spirit  it  might  almost  be 
called — which  had  pervaded  her  being,  had  at  last  been 
driven  forth  or  exorcised,  and  that  these  tears  were  at  once 
the  sign  and  the  pledge  of  her  redeemed  nature.  But  now 
she  was  to  be  soothed  and  not  excited.  After  her  tears  she 
slept  again,  and  the  look  her  face  wore  was  peaceful  as  never 
before. 

Old  Sophy  met  the  Doctor  at  the  door  and  told  him  all  the 
circumstances  connected  with  the  extraordinary  attack  from 
which  Elsie  had  suffered.  It  was  the  purple  leaves,  she  said. 
She  remembered  that  Dick  once  brought  home  a  branch  of  a 
tree  with  some  of  the  same  leaves  on  it,  and  Elsie  screamed 
and  almost  fainted  then.  She,  Sophy,  had  asked  her,  after 
she  had  got  quiet,  what  was  in  the  leaves  that  made  her  feel 
so  bad.  Elsie  couldn't  tell  her, — didn't  like  to  speak  about 
it, — shuddered  whenever  Sophy  mentioned  it. 

This  did  not  sound  so  strangely  to  the  old  Doctor  as  it 
does  to  some  who  listen  to  this  narrative.  He  had  known 
some  curious  examples  of  antipathies,  and  remembered  read- 


826  .ELSIE 

ing  of  others  still  more  singular.  He  had  known  those  who 
could  not  bear  the  presence  of  a  cat,  and  recollected  the  story, 
often  told,  of  a  person's  hiding  one  in  a  chest  when  one  of 
these  sensitive  individuals  came  into  the  room,  so  as  not  to 
disturb  him;  but  he  presently  began  to  sweat  and  turn  pale, 
and  cried  out  that  there  must  be  a  cat  hidden  somewhere. 
He  knew  people  who  were  poisoned  by  strawberries,  by  honey, 
by  different  meats, — many  who  could  not  endure  cheese, — 
some  who  could  not  bear  the  smell  of  roses.  If  he  had 
known  all  the  stories  in  the  old  books,  he  would  have  found 
that  some  have  swooned  and  become  as  dead  men  at  the  smell 
of  a  rose, — that  a  stout  soldier  has  been  known  to  turn  and 
run  at  the  sight  or  smell  of  rue, — that^  cassia  and  even  olive- 
oil  have  produced  deadly  faintings  in  certain  individuals, — 
in  short,  that  almost  everything  has  seemed  to  be  a  poison  to 
somebody. 

"  Bring  me  that  basket,  Sophy,"  said  the  old  Doctor,  "  if 
you  can  find  it." 

Sophy  brought  it  to  him, — for  he  had  not  yet  entered 
Elsie's  apartment. 

"  These  purple  leaves  are  from  the  white  ash,"  he  said. 
"  You  don't  know  the  notion  that  people  commonly  have 
about  that  tree,  Sophy  ?  " 

"  I  know  they  say  the  Ugly  Things  never  go  where  the 
white  ash  grows,"  Sophy  answered.  "  Oh,  Doctor  dear,  what 
I'm  thinkin'  of  a'n't  true,  is  it? " 

The  Doctor  smiled  sadly,  but  did  not  answer.  He  went 
directly  to  Elsie's  room.  Nobody  would  have  known  by  his 
manner  that  he  saw  any  special  change  in  his  patient.  He 
spoke  with  her  as  usual,  made  some  slight  alteration  in  his 
prescriptions,  and  left  the  room  with  a  kind,  cheerful  look. 
He  met  her  father  on  the  stairs. 

"  Is  it  as  I  thought  ? "  said  Dudley  Venner. 

"  There  is  everything  to  fear,"  the  Doctor  said ;  "  and  not 
much,  I  am  afraid,  to  hope.  Does  not  her  face  recall  to  you 
one  that  you  remember,  as  never  before?  " 

"  Yes,"  her  father  answered, — "  oh,  yes !  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  change  which  has  come  over  her  features, 
and  her  voice,  her  temper,  her  whole  being?  Tell  me, 
oh,  tell  me,  what  is  it?  Can  it  be  that  the  curse  is  passing 
away,  and  my  daughter  is  to  be  restored  to  me, — such  as  her 
mother  would  have  had  her, — such  as  her  mother  was  ? " 


THE    WHITE    ASH.  327 

"Walk  out  with  me  into  the  garden,"  the  Doctor  said, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  and  all  I  think  about  this 
great  mystery  of  Elsie's  life." 

They  walked  out  together,  and  the  Doctor  began : — 

"  She  has  lived  a  double  being,  as  it  were, — the  conse 
quence  of  the  blight  which  fell  upon  her  in  the  dim  period 
before  consciousness.  You  can  see  what  she  might  have 
been  but  for  this.  You  know  that  for  these  eighteen  years 
her  whole  existence  has  taken  its  character  from  that  influ 
ence  which  we  need  not  name.  But  you  will  remember  that 
few  of  the  lower  forms  of  life  last  as  human  beings  do ;  and 
thus  it  might  have  been  hoped  and  trusted  with  some  show 
of  reason,  as  I  have  always  suspected  you  hoped  and  trusted, 
perhaps  more  confidently  than  myself,  that  the  lower  nature 
which  had  become  ingrafted  on  the  higher  would  die  out  and 
leave  the  real  woman's  life  she  inherited  to  outlive  this  ac 
cidental  principle  which  had  so  poisoned  her  childhood  and 
youth.  I  believe  it  is  so  dying  out ;  but  I  am  afraid, — yes,  I 
must  say  it,  I  fear  it  has  involved  the  centers  of  life  in 
its  own  decay.  There  is  hardly  any  pulse  at  Elsie's  wrist; 
no  stimulants  seem  to  rouse  her ;  and  it  looks  as  if  life  were 
slowly  retreating  inwards,  so  that  by-and-by  she  will  sleep 
as  those  who  lie  down  in  the  cold  and  never  wake." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  father  heard  all  this  not  with 
out  deep  sorrow,  and  such  marks  of  it  as  his  thoughtful  and 
tranquil  nature,  long  schooled  by  suffering,  claimed  or  per 
mitted,  but  with  a  resignation  itself  the  measure  of  his  past 
trials.  Dear  as  his  daughter  might  become  to  him,  all  h© 
dared  to  ask  of  Heaven  was  that  she  might  be  restored  to 
that  truer  self  which  lay  beneath  her  false  and  adventitious 
being.  If  he  could  once  see  that  the  icy  luster  in  her  eyes 
had  become  a  soft,  calm  light, — that  her  soul  was  at  peace 
with  all  about  her  and  with  Him  above, — this  crumb  from 
the  children's  table  was  enough  for  him,  as  it  was  for  the 
Syro-Phoenician  woman  who  asked  that  the  dark  spirit  might 
go  out  from  her  daughter. 

There  was  little  change  the  next  day,  until  all  at  once  she 
said  in  a  clear  voice  that  she  should  like  to  see  her  master  at 
the  school,  Mr.  Langdon.  He  came  accordingly,  and  took 
the  place  of  Helen  at  her  bedside.  It  seemed  as  if  Elsie  had 
forgotten  the  last  scene  with  him.  Might  it  be  that  pride 
had  come  in,  and  she  had  sent  for  him  only  to  show  how: 


328  ELSIE    VENNER. 

-'superior  she  had  grown  to  the  weakness  which  had  betrayed 
her  into  that  extraordinary  request,  so  contrary  to  the  in 
stincts  and  usages  of  her  sex?  Or  was  it  that  the  singular 
change  which  had  come  over  her  had  involved  her  passionate 
fancy  for  him  and  swept  it  away  with  her  other  habits  of 
thought  and  feeling?  Or  could  it  be  that  she  felt  that  all 
earthly  interests  were  becoming  of  little  account  to  her,  and 
wished  to  place  herself  right  with  one  to  whom  she  had  dis 
played  a  wayward  movement  of  her  unbalanced  imagination  ? 
She  welcomed  Mr.  Bernard  as  quietly  as  she  had  received 
Helen  Darley.  He  colored  at  the  recollection  of  that  last 
scene,  when  he  came  into  her  presence;  but  she  smiled  with 
perfect  tranquillity.  She  did  not  speak  to  him  of  any  appre 
hension  ;  but  he  saw  that  she  looked  upon  herself  as  doomed. 
So  friendly,  yet  so  calm  did  she  seem  through  all  their  in 
terview,  that  Mr.  Bernard  could  only  look  back  upon  her 
manifestation  of  feeling  towards  him  on  their  walk  from  the 
school  as  a  vagary  of  a  mind  laboring  under  some  unnatural 
excitement,  and  wholly  at  variance  with  the  true  character 
of  Elsie  Venner  as  he  saw  her  before  him  in  her  subdued, 
yet  singular  beauty.  He  looked  with  almost  scientific  close 
ness  of  observation  into  the  diamond  eyes ;  but  that  peculiar 
light  which  he  knew  so  well  was  not  there.  She  was  the 
same  in  one  sense  as  on  that  first  day  when  he  had  seen  her 
coiling  and  uncoiling  her  golden  chain ;  yet  how  different  in 
every  aspect  which  revealed  her  state  of  mind  and  emotion ! 
Something  of  tenderness  there  was,  perhaps,  in  her  tone  to 
wards  him;  she  would  not  have  sent  for  him,  had  she  not 
felt  more  than  an  ordinary  interest  in  him.  But  through  the 
whole  of  his  visit  she  never  lost  her  gracious  self-possession. 
The  Dudley  race  might  well  be  proud  of  the  last  of  its  daugh 
ters,  as  she  lay  dying,  but  unconquered  by  the  feeling  of  the 
present  or  the  fear  of  the  future. 

As  for  Mr.  Bernard,  he  found  it  very  hard  to  look  upon 
her,  and  listen  to  her  unmoved.  There  was  nothing  that 
reminded  him  of  the  stormy-browed,  almost  savage  girl  he  re 
membered  in  her  fierce  loveliness, — nothing  of  all  her  singu 
larities  of  air  and  of  costume.  Nothing?  Yes,  one  thing. 
Weak  and  suffering  as  she  was,  she  had  never  parted  with 
one  particular  ornament,  such  as  a  sick  person  would  natu 
rally,  as  it  might  be  supposed,  get  rid  of  at  once.  The  golden 
cord  which  she  wore  round  her  neck  at  the  great  party  was 


THE    WHITE    ASH.  329 

still  there.     A  bracelet  was  lying  by  her  pillow;  she  had  un 
clasped  it  from  her  wrist. 

Before  Mr.  Bernard  left  her,  she  said, — 

"  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  Some  time  or  other,  per 
haps,  you  will  mention  my  name  to  one  whom  you  love. 
Give  her  this  from  your  scholar  and  friend  Elsie." 

He  took  the  bracelet,   raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  then  -• 
turned  his  face  away;  in  that  moment  he  was  the  weaker  of 
the  two. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said ;  "  thank  you  for  coming." 

His  voice  died  away  in  his  throat,  as  he  tried  to  answer 
her.  She  followed  him  with  her  eyes  as  he  passed  from  her 
sight  through  the  door,  and  when  it  closed  after  him  sobbed 
tremulously  once  or  twice, — but  stilled  herself,  and  met 
Helen,  as  she  entered,  with  a  composed  countenance. 

"  I  have  had  a  very  pleasant  visit  from  Mr.  Langdon," 
Elsie  said.  "  Sit  by  me,  Helen,  awhile  without  speaking;  I 
should  like  to  sleep,  if  I  can, — and  to  dream." 


CHAPTEK  XXX. 

THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair-weather,  hearing  that  his 
parishioner's  daughter,  Elsie,  was  very  ill,  could  do  nothing 
less  than  come  to  the  mansion-house  and  tender  such  con 
solations  as  he  was  master  of.  It  was  rather  remarkable 
that  the  old  Doctor  did  not  exactly  approve  of  his  visit. 
He  thought  that  company  of  every  sort  might  be  injurious  in 
her  weak  state.  He  was  of  the  opinion  that  Mr.  Fair- 
weather,  though  greatly  interested  in  religious  matters,  was 
not  the  most  sympathetic  person  that  could  be  found;  in 
fact,  the  old  Doctor  thought  he  was  too  much  taken  up  with 
his  own  interests  for  eternity  to  give  himself  quite  so 
heartily  to  the  need  of  other  people  as  some  persons  got  up 
on  a  rather  more  generous  scale  (our  good  neighbor  Dr. 
Honeywood,  for  instance)  could  do.  However,  all  these 
things  had  better  be  arranged  to  suit  her  wants;  if  she 
would  like  to  talk  with  a  clergyman,  she  had  a  great  deal 
better  see  one  as  often  as  she  liked,  and  run  the  risk  of  the 
excitement,  than  have  a  hidden  wish  for  such  a  visit  and  per 
haps  find  herself  too  weak  to  see  him  by-and-by. 

The  old  Doctor  knew  by  sad  experience  that  dreadful  mis 
take  against  which  all  medical  practitioners  should  be 
warned.  His  experience  may  well  be  a  guide  for  others. 
Do  not  overlook  the  desire  for  spiritual  advice  and  consola 
tion  which  patients  sometimes  feel,  and,  with  the  frightful 
mauvaise  honte  peculiar  to  Protestantism,  alone  among  all 
human  beliefs,  are  ashamed  to  tell.  As  a  part  of  medical 
treatment,  it  is  the  physician's  business  to  detect  the  hidden 
longing  for  the  food  of  the  soul,  as  much  as  for  any  form 
of  bodily  nourishment.  Especially  in  the  higher  walks 
of  society,  where  this  unutterably  miserable  false  shame  of 
Protestantism  acts  in  proportion  to  the  general  acuteness  of 
the  cultivated  sensibilities,  let  no  unwillingness  to  suggest 
the  sick  person's  real  need  suffer  him  to  languish  between 
his  want  and  his  morbid  sensitiveness.  What  an  infinite  ad- 


THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED.       331 

vantage  the  Mussulmans  and  the  Catholics  have  over  many 
of  our  more  exclusively  spiritual  sects  in  the  way  they  keep 
their  religion  always  by  them  and  never  blush  for  it !  And 
besides  this  spiritual  longing,  we  should  never  forget  that 

"  On  some  fond  heart  the  parting  soul  relies," 

and  the  minister  of  religion,  in  addition  to  the  sympathetic 
nature  which  we  have  a  right  to  demand  in  him,  has  trained 
himself  to  the  art  of  entering  into  the  feelings  of  others. 

The  reader  must  pardon  this  digression,  which  introduces 
the  visit  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  to  Elsie  Ven- 
iier.  It  was  mentioned  to  her  that  he  would  like  to  call  and 
see  how  she  was,  and  she  consented, — not  with  much  appar 
ent  interest,  for  she  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  not  feeling 
any  very  deep  conviction  of  his  sympathy  for  persons  in 
sorrow.  But  he  came,  and  worked  the  conversation  round 
to  religion,  and  confused  her  with  his  hybrid  notions,  half 
made  up  of  what  he  had  been  believing  and  teaching  all  his 
life,  and  half  of  the  new  doctrines  which  he  had  veneered 
upon  the  surface  of  his  old  belief.  He  got  so  far  as  to  make 
a  prayer  with  her, — a  cool,  well-guarded  prayer,  which  com 
promised  his  faith  as  little  as  possible,  and  which,  if  devotion 
were  a  game  played  against  Providence,  might  have  been 
considered  a  cautious  and  sagacious  move. 

When  he  had  gone,  Elsie  called  Old  Sophy  to  her. 

"  Sophy,"  she  said,  "  don't  let  them  send  that  cold-hearted 
man  to  me  any  more.  If  your  old  minister  comes  to  see 
you,  I  should  like  to  hear  him  talk.  He  looks  as  if  he  cared 
for  everybody,  and  would  care  for  me.  And,  Sophy,  if  I 
should  die  one  of  these  days,  I  should  like  to  have  that  old 
minister  come  and  say  whatever  is  to  be  said  over  me.  It 
would  comfort  Dudley  more,  I  know,  than  to  have  that  hard 
man  here,  when  you're  in  trouble, — for  some  of  you  will  be 
sorry  when  I'm  gone,  won't  you,  Sophy  ?  " 

The  poor  old  black  woman  could  not  stand  this  question. 
The  cold  minister  had  frozen  Elsie  until  she  felt  as  if  nobody 
cared  for  her  or  would  regret  her, — and  her  question  had  be 
trayed  this  momentary  feeling. 

"  Don'  talk  so !  don'  talk  so,  darlin' !  "  she  cried,  passion 
ately.  "  When  you  go,  OF  Sophy'll  go ;  'n'  where  you  go,  OF 
Sophy'll  go :  'n'  we'll  both  go  t'  th'  place  where  th'  Lord  takes 


332  ELSIE    VENNER. 

care  of  all  his  children,  whether  their  faces  are  white  or 
black.  Oh,  darlin',  darlin' !  if  th'  Lord  should  let  me  die  fus', 
you  shall  fin'  all  ready  for  you  when  you  come  after  me. 
O'ny  don'  go  'n'  leave  poor  Ol'  Sophy  all  'lone  in  th'  world !  " 

Helen  came  in  at  this  moment  and  quieted  the  old  woman 
with  a  look.  Such  scenes  were  just  what  were  most  danger 
ous,  in  the  state  in  which  Elsie  was  lying :  but  that  is  one  of 
the  ways  in  which  an  affectionate  friend  sometimes  uncon 
sciously  wears  out  the  life  which  a  hired  nurse,  thinking  of 
nothing  but  her  regular  duties  and  wages,  would  have  spared 
from  all  emotional  fatigue. 

The  change  which  had  come  over  Elsie's  disposition  was 
itself  the  cause  of  new  excitements.  How  was  it  possible  that 
her  father  could  keep  away  from  her,  now  that  she  was  com 
ing  back  to  the  nature  and  the  very  look  of  her  mother,  the 
bride  of  his  youth  ?  How  was  it  possible  to  refuse  her,  when 
she  said  to  Old  Sophy,  that  she  should  like  to  have  her  min 
ister  come  in  and  sit  by  her,  even  though  his  presence  might 
perhaps  prove  a  new  source  of  excitement? 

But  the  Reverend  Doctor  did  come  and  sit  by  her,  and 
spoke  such  soothing  words  to  her,  words  of  such  peace  and 
consolation,  that  from  that  hour  she  was  tranquil  as  never 
before.  All  true  hearts  are  alike  in  the  hour  of  need;  the 
Catholic  has  a  reserve  fund  of  faith  for  his  fellow-creature's 
trying  moment,  and  the  Calvinist  reveals  those  springs  of 
human  brotherhood  and  charity  in  his  soul  which  are  only 
covered  over  by  the  iron  tables  inscribed  with  the  harder 
dogmas  of  his  creed.  It  was  enough  that  the  Reverend  Doc 
tor  knew  all  of  Elsie's  history.  He  could  not  judge  her  by 
any  formula,  like  those  which  have  been  molded  by  past 
ages  out  of  their  ignorance.  He  did  not  talk  with  her  as  if 
she  were  an  outside  sinner,  worse  than  himself.  He  found  a 
bruised  and  languishing  soul,  and  bound  up  its  wounds.  A 
blessed  office, — one  which  is  confined  to  no  sect  or  creed,  but 
which  good  men  in  all  times,  under  various  names  and  with 
varying  ministries,  to  suit  the  need  of  each  age,  of  each  race, 
of  each  individual  soul,  have  come  forward  to  discharge  for 
their  suffering  fellow-creatures. 

After  this  there  was  little  change  in  Elsie,  except  that  her 
heart  beat  more  feebly  every  day, — so  that  the  old  Doctor 
himself,  with  all  his  experience,  could  see  nothing  to  account 
for  the  gradual  failing  of  the  powers  of  life,  and  yet  could 


THE    GOLDEN    CORD    IS    LOOSED.  333 

find  no  remedy  which  seemed  to  arrest  its  progress  in  the 
smallest  degree. 

"  Be  very  careful,"  he  said,  "  that  she  is  not  allowed  to 
make  any  muscular  exertion.  Any  such  effort,  when  a  person 
is  so  enfeebled,  may  stop  the  heart  in  a  moment;  and  if  it 
stops,  it  will  never  move  again." 

Helen  enforced  this  rule  with  the  greatest  care.  Elsie 
was  hardly  allowed  to  move  her  hand  or  to  speak  above  a 
whisper.  It  seemed  to  be  mainly  the  question  now,  whether 
this  trembling-  flame  of  life  would  be  blown  out  by  some 
light  breath  of  air,  or  whether  it  could  be  so  nursed  and  shel 
tered  by  the  hollow  of  these  watchful  hands  that  it  would 
have  a  chance  to  kindle  to  its  natural  brightness. 

— Her  father  came  to  sit  with  her  in  the  evening.  He 
had  never  talked  so  freely  with  her  as  during  the  hour  he 
had  passed  at  her  bedside,  telling  her  little  circumstances  of 
her  mother's  life,  living  over  with  her  all  that  was  pleasant 
in  the  past,  and  trying  to  encourage  her  with  somo  cheerful 
gleams  of  hope  for  the  future.  A  faint  smile  played  over 
her  face,  but  she  did  not  answer  his  encouraging  suggestions, 
The  hour  came  for  him  to  leave  her  with  those  who  watched 
by  her. 

"  Good-night,  my  dear  child,"  he  said,  and  stooping  down, 
kised  her  cheek. 

Elsie  rose  by  a  sudden  effort,  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  Good-night,  my  dear 
father!" 

The  suddenness  of  her  movement  had  taken  him  by  sur 
prise,  or  he  would  have  checked  so  dangerous  an  effort.  It 
was  too  late  now.  Her  arms  slid  away  from  him  like  lifeless 
weights, — her  head  fell  back  upon  her  pillow, — a  long  sigh 
breathed  through  her  lips. 

"  She  is  faint,"  said  Helen,  doubtfully ;  "  bring  me  the 
hart.shorn,  Sophy." 

The  old  woman  had  started  from  her  place,  and  was  now 
leaning  over  her,  looking  in  her  face,  and  listening  for  the 
sound  of  her  breathing. 

"She's  dead!  Elsie's  dead!  My  darlin'  's  dead!"  she 
cried  aloud,  filling  the  room  with  her  utterance  of  anguish. 

Dudley  Venner  drew  her  away  and  silenced  her  with  a 
voice  of  authority,  while  Helen  and  an  assistant  plied  their 
restore tives.  It  was  all  in  vain. 


334  ELSIE    VENNEE. 

The  solemn  tidings  passed  from  the  chamber  of  death 
through  the  family.  The  daughter,  the  hope  of  that  old  and 
honored  house,  was  dead  in  the  freshness  of  her  youth,  and 
the  home  of  its  solitary  representative  was  hereafter  doubly 
desolate. 

A  messenger  rode  hastily  out  of  the  avenue.  A  little 
after  this  the  people  of  the  village  and  the  outlying  farm 
houses  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  bell. 

One, — two, — three, — four, — 

They  stopped  in  every  house,  as  far  as  the  wavering  vibra 
tions  reached,  and  listened 

five, — six, — seven, — 

It  was  not  the  little  child  -which  had  been  lying  so  long 
at  the  point  of  death;  that  could  not  be  more  than  three  or 
four  years  old — 

— eight, — nine, — ten, — and  so  on  to  fifteen, — sixteen, — 
seventeen, — eighteen 

The  pulsations  seemed  to  keep  on, — but  it  was  the  brain, 
and  not  the  bell,  that  was  throbbing  now. 

"  Elsie's  dead ! "  was  the  exclamation  at  a  hundred  fire 
sides. 

"  Eighteen  year  old,"  said  old  Widow  Peake,  rising  from 
her  chair.  "  Eighteen  year  ago  I  laid  two  gold  eagles  on  her 
mother's  eyes, — he  wouldn't  have  anything  but  gold  touch 
her  eyelids, — and  now  Elsie's  to  be  straightened, — the  Lord 
have  mercy  on  her  poor  sinful  soul !  " 

Dudley  Venner  prayed  that  night  that  he  might  be  for 
given,  if  he  had  failed  in  any  act  of  duty  or  kindness  to  this 
unfortunate  child  of  his,  now  freed  from  all  the  woes  born 
with  her  and  so  long  poisoning  her  soul.  He  thanked  God 
for  the  brief  interval  of  peace  which  had  been  granted  her, 
for  the  sweet  communion  they  had  enjoyed  in  these  last  days, 
and  for  the  hope  of  meeting  her  with  that  other  lost  friend 
in  a  better  world. 

Helen  mingled  a  few  broken  thanks  and  petitions  with  her 
tears;  thanks  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  share  the  last 
days  and  hours  of  this  poor  sister  in  sorrow;  petitions  that 
the  grief  of  bereavement  might  be  lightened  to  the  lonely 
parent  and  the  faithful  old  servant. 

Old  Sophy  said  almost  nothing,  but  sat  day  and  night  by 
her  dead  darling.  But  sometimes  her  anguish  would  find  an 
outlet  in  strange  sounds,  something  between  a  cry  and  a 


THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED.        335 

musical  note, — such  as  none  had  ever  heard  her  utter  before. 
There  were  old  remembrances  surging  up  from  her  childish 
days, — coming  through  her  mother  from  the  cannibal  chief, 
her  grandfather, — death-wails,  such  as  they  sing  in  the 
mountains  of  Western  Africa,  when  they  see  the  fires  on 
distant  hill-sides  and  know  that  their  own  wives  and  children 
are  undergoing  the  fate  of  captives. 

The  time  came  when  Elsie  was  to  be  laid  by  her  mother 
in  the  small  square  marked  by  the  white  stone. 

It  was  not  unwillingly  that  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair- 
weather  had  relinquished  the  duty  of  conducting  the  ser 
vice  to  the  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood,  in  accordance  with 
Elsie's  request.  He  could  not,  by  any  reasoning,  reconcile 
his  present  way  of  thinking  with  a  hope  for  the  future  of 
his  unfortunate  parishioner.  Any  good  old  Roman  Catholic 
priest,  born  and  bred  to  his  faith  and  his  business,  would  have 
found  a  loophole  into  some  kind  of  heaven  for  her,  by  vir 
tue  of  his  doctrine  of  "  invincible  ignorance,"  or  other  special 
proviso ;  but  a  recent  convert  cannot  enter  into  the  working 
conditions  of  his  new  creed.  Beliefs  must  be  lived  in  for  a 
good  while,  before  they  accommodate  themselves  to  the  soul's 
wants,  and  wear  loose  enough  to  be  comfortable. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  had  no  such  scruples.  Like  thou 
sands  of  those  who  are  classed  nominally  with  the  despairing 
believers,  he  had  never  prayed  over  a  departed  brother  or 
sister  without  feeling  and  expressing  a  guarded  hope  that 
there  was  mercy  in  store  for  the  poor  sinner,  whom  parents, 
wives,  children,  brothers,  and  sisters  could  not  bear  to  give  up 
to  utter  ruin  without  a  word, — and  would  not,  as  he  knew 
full  well,  in  virtue  of  that  human  love  and  sympathy  which 
nothing  can  ever  extinguish.  And  in  this  poor  Elsie's  his 
tory  he  could  read  nothing  which  the  tears  of  the  recording 
angel  might  not  wash  away.  As  the  good  physician  of  the 
place  knew  the  diseases  that  assailed  the  bodies  of  men  and 
women,  so  he  had  learned  the  mysteries  of  the  sickness  of 
the  soul. 

So  many  wished  to  look  upon  Elsie's  face  once  more,  that 
her  father  would  not  deny  them;  nay,  he  was  pleased  that 
those  who  remembered  her  living  should  see  her  in  the  still 
beauty  of  death.  Helen  and  those  with  her  arrayed  her  for 
this  farewell-view.  All  was  ready  for  the  sad  or  curious 
eyes  which  were  to  look  upon  her.  There  was  no  painful 


336  ELSIE   VENNER. 

change  to  be  concealed  by  any  artifice.  Even  her  round  neck 
was  left  uncovered,  that  she  might  be  more  like  one  who 
slept.  Only  the  golden  cord  was  left  in  its  place :  some 
searching  eye  might  detect  a  trace  of  that  birthmark  which 
it  was  whispered  she  had  always  worn  a  necklace  to  conceal. 

At  the  last  moment,  when  all  the  preparations  were  com 
pleted,  Old  Sophy  stooped  over  her,  and,  with  trembling 
hand,  loosed  the  golden  cord.  She  looked  intently,  for  some 
little  space :  there  was  no  shade  nor  blemish  where  the  ring 
of  gold  had  encircled  her  throat.  She  took  it  gently  away 
and  laid  it  in  the  casket  which  held  her  ornaments. 

"  The  Lord  be  praised ! "  the  old  woman  cried,  aloud. 
"  He  has  taken  away  the  mark  that  was  on  her ;  she's  fit  to 
meet  his  holy  angels  now !  " 

So  Elsie  lay  for  hours  in  the  great  room,  in  a  kind  of  state, 
with  flowers  all  about  her, — her  black  hair  braided  as  in  life, 
— her  brows  smooth,  as  if  they  had  never  known  the  scowl 
of  passion, — and  on  her  lips  the  faint  smile  with  which  she 
had  uttered  her  last  "  Good-night."  The  young  girls  from 
the  school  looked  at  her,  one  after  another,  and  passed  on, 
sobbing,  carrying  in  their  hearts  the  picture  that  would  be 
with  them  all  their  days.  The  great  people  of  the  place  were 
all  there  with  their  silent  sympathy.  The  lesser  kind  of 
gentry,  and  many  of  the  plainer  folk  of  the  village,  half- 
pleased  to  find  themselves  passing  beneath  the  stately  portico 
of  the  ancient  mansion-house,  crowded  in,  until  the  ample 
rooms  were  overflowing.  All  the  friends  whose  acquaintance 
we  have  made  were  there,  and  many  from  remoter  villages 
and  towns. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  at  last.  The  hour  had  come  for 
the  parting  words  to  be  spoken  over  the  dead.  The  good  old 
minister's  voice  rose  out  of  the  stillness,  subdued  and  tremu 
lous  at  first,  but  growing  firmer  and  clearer  as  he  went  on, 
until  it  reached  the  ears  of  the  visitors  who  were  in  the  far, 
desolate  chambers,  looking  at  the  pictured  hangings  and 
the  old  dusty  portraits.  He  did  not  tell  her  story  in  his 
prayer.  He  only  spoke  of  our  dear  departed  sister  as  one  of 
many  whom  Providence  in  its  wisdom  has  seen  fit  to  bring 
under  bondage  from  their  cradles.  It  was  not  for  us  to 
judge  them  by  any  standard  of  our  own.  He  who  made  the 
heart  alone  knew  the  infirmities  it  inherited  or  acquired. 
For  all  that  our  dear  sister  had  presented  that  was  interest- 


THE   GOLDEN   CORD    IS    LOOSED.  337 

ing  and  attractive  in  her  character  we  were  to  be  grateful; 
for  whatever  was  dark  or  inexplicable  we  must  trust  that  the 
deep  shadow  which  rested  on  the  twilight  dawn  of  her  being 
might  render  a  reason  before  the  bar  of  Omniscience ;  for  the 
grace  which  had  lightened  her  last  days  we  should  pour  out 
our  hearts  in  thankful  acknowledgment.  From  the  life  and 
the  death  of  this  our  dear  sister  we  should  learn  a  lesson  of 
patience  with  our  fellow-creatures  in  their  inborn  peculiari 
ties,  of  charity  in  judging  what  seem  to  us  willful  faults  of 
character,  of  hope  and  trust,  that  by  sickness  or  affliction,  or 
such  inevitable  discipline  as  life  must  always  bring  with  it, 
if  by  no  gentler  means,  the  soul  which  had  been  left  by 
Nature  to  wander  into  the  path  of  error  and  of  suffering 
might  be  reclaimed  and  restored  to  its  true  aim,  and  so  led 
on  by  divine  grace  to  its  eternal  welfare.  He  closed  his 
prayer  by  commending  each  member  of  the  afflicted  family 
to  the  divine  blessing. 

Then  all  at  once  rose  the  clear  sound  of  the  girls'  voices, 
in  the  sweet,  sad  melody  of  a  funeral  hymn, — one  of  those 
which  Elsie  had  marked,  as  if  prophetically,  among  her  own 
favorites. 

And  so  they  laid  her  in  the  earth,  and  showered  down 
flowers  upon  her,  and  filled  her  grave,  and  covered  it  with 
green  sods.  By  the  side  of  it  was  another  oblong  ridge,  with 
a  white  stone  standing  at  its  head.  Mr.  Bernard  looked 
upon  it,  as  he  came  close  to  the  place  where  Elsie  was  laid, 
and  read  the  insrciption, — 

CATALINA 
WIFE  TO  DUDLEY  VENNER 

DIED 

OCTOBER  13,  1840 

AGED  TWENTY   YEARS. 

A  gentle  rain  fell  on  the  turf  after  it  was  laid.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  a  long  and  dreary  autumnal  storm,  a  de 
ferred  "  ecjuinoctial,"  as  many  considered  it.  The  mountain 
streams  were  all  swollen  and  turbulent,  and  the  steep  declivi 
ties  were  furrowed  in  every  direction  by  new  channels.  It 
made  the  house  seem  doubly  desolate  to  hear  the  wind  howl 
ing  and  the  rain  beating  upon  the  roofs.  The  poor  relation 
who  was  staying  at  the  house  would  insist  on  Helen's  re- 


338  ELSIE    VENNER. 

maining  a  few  days :  Old  Sophy  was  in  such  a  condition,  that 
it  kept  her  in  continual  anxiety,  and  there  were  many  cares 
which  Helen  could  take  off  from  her. 

The  old  black  woman's  life  was  buried  in  her  darling's 
grave.  She  did  nothing  but  moan  and  lament  for  her.  At 
night  she  was  restless,  and  would  get  up  and  wander  to 
Elsie's  apartment  and  look  for  her  and  call  her  by  name.  At 
other  times  she  would  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  wind  and 
the  rain, — sometimes  with  such  a  wild  look  upon  her  face, 
and  with  such  sudden  starts  and  exclamations,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  she  heard  spirit-voices  and  were  answering  the  whispers 
of  unseen  visitants.  With  all  this  were  mingled  hints  of  her 
old  superstition, — forebodings  of  something  fearful  about  to 
happen, — perhaps  the  great  final  catastrophe  of  all  things, 
according  to  the  prediction  current  in  the  kitchens  of  Rock- 
land. 

"Hark!"  Old  Sophy  would  say,— "  don'  you  hear  thT 
crackin'  V  th'  snappin'  up  in  Th'  Mountain,  'n'  rollin'  o'  th' 
big  stones?  The'  's  somethin'  stirrin'  among  th'  rocks;  I 
hear  th'  soun'  of  it  in  th'  night,  when  th'  wind  has  stopped 
blowin'.  Oh,  stay  by  me  a  little  while,  Miss  Darlin'!  stay 
by  me !  for  it's  th'  Las'  Day,  maybe,  that's  close  on  us,  'n'  I 
feel  as  if  I  couldn'  meet  th'  Lord  all  alone !  " 

It  was  curious, — but  Helen  did  certainly  recognize  sounds, 
during  the  lull  of  the  storm,  which  were  not  of  falling  rain 
or  running  streams, — short  snapping  sounds,  as  of  tense 
cords  breaking, — long  uneven  sounds,  as  of  masses  rolling 
down  steep  declivities.  But  the  morning  came  as  usual;  and 
as  the  others  said  nothing  of  these  singular  noises,  Helen 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  speak  of  them.  All  day  long 
she  and  the  humble  relative  of  Elsie's  mother,  who  had  ap 
peared  as  poor  relations  are  wont  to  in  the  great  crises  of 
life,  were  busy  in  arranging  the  disordered  house,  and  look 
ing  over  the  various  objects  which  Elsie's  singular  tastes  had 
brought  together,  to  dispose  of  them  as  her  father  might 
direct.  They  all  met  together  at  the  usual  hour  for  tea. 
One  of  the  servants  came  in,  looking  very  blank,  and  said  to 
the  poor  relation, — 

"  The  well  is  gone  dry ;  we  have  nothing  but  rain 
water." 

Dudley  Venner's  countenance  changed;  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  went  to  assure  himself  of  the  fact,  and,  if  he  could. 


THE   GOLDEN    CORD   IS   LOOSED.  339 

of  the  reason  of  it.  For  a  well  to  dry  up  during  such  a  rain 
storm  was  extraordinary, — it  was  ominous. 

He  came  back,  looking  very  anxious. 

"  Did  any  of  you  notice  any  remarkable  sounds  last  night," 
he  said, — "  or  this  morning  ?  Hark !  do  you  hear  anything 
now  ? " 

They  listened  in  perfect  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
there  came  a  short  crackling  sound,  and  two  or  three  snaps, 
as  of  parting  cords. 

Dudley  Venner  called  all  his  household  together. 

"  We  are  in  danger  here,  as  I  think,  to-night,"  he  said, — 
"  not  very  great  danger,  perhaps,  but  it  is  a  risk  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  run.  These  heavy  rains  have  loosed  some  of 
the  rocks  above,  and  they  may  come  down  and  endanger  the 
house.  Harness  the  horses,  Elbridge,  and  take  all  the  family 
away.  Miss  Darley  will  go  to  the  Institute;  the  others  will 
pass  the  night  at  the  Mountain  House.  I  shall  stay  here, 
myself ;  it  is  not  at  all  likely  that  anything  will  come  of  these 
warnings;  but  if  there  should,  I  choose  to  be  here  and  take 
my  chance." 

It  needs  little,  generally,  to  frighten  servants,  and  they 
were  all  ready  enough  to  go.  The  poor  relation  was  one  of 
the  timid  sort,  and  was  terribly  uneasy  to  be  got  out  of  the 
house.  This  left  no  alternative,  of  course,  for  Helen,  but 
to  go  also.  They  all  urged  upon  Dudley  Venner  to  go  with 
them:  if  there  was  danger,  why  should  he  remain  to  risk  it, 
when  he  sent  away  the  others? 

Old  Sophy  said  nothing  until  the  time  came  for  her  to  go 
with  the  second  of  Elbridge's  carriage-loads. 

"  Come,  Sophy,"  said  Dudley  Venner,  "  get  your  things  and 
go.  They  will  take  good  care  of  you  at  the  Mountain  House; 
and  when  we  have  made  sure  that  there  is  no  real  danger, 
you  shall  come  back  at  once." 

"  No,  Massa !  "  Sophy  answered.  "  I've  seen  Elsie  into  th' 
ground,  'n'  I  a'n't  goin'  away  to  come  back  'n'  fin'  Massa  Ven 
ner  buried  under  th'  rocks.  My  darlin'  's  gone;  'n'  now,  if 
Massa  goes,  'n'  th'  oF  place  goes,  it's  time  for  OP  Sophy  to 
go,  too.  No,  Massa  Venner,  we'll  both  stay  in  th'  oF  man 
sion  'n'  wait  for  th'  Lord !  " 

Nothing  could  change  the  old  woman's  determination ;  and 
her  master,  who  only  feared,  but  did  not  really  expect  the 
long-deferred  catastrophe,  was  obliged  to  consent  to  her  stay- 


340  ELSIE   VENNER. 

ing.  The  sudden  drying  of  the  well  at  such  a  time  was  the 
most  alarming  sign ;  for  he  remembered  that  the  same  thing 
had  been  observed  just  before  great  mountain-slides.  This 
long  rain,  too,  was  just  the  kind  of  cause  which  was  likely 
to  loosen  the  strata  of  rock  piled  up  in  the  ledges;  if  the 
dreaded  event  should  ever  come  to  pass,  it  would  be  at  such  a 
time. 

He  paced  his  chamber  uneasily  until  long  past  midnight. 
If  the  morning  came  without  accident,  he  meant  to  have  a 
careful  examination  made  of  all  the  rents  and  fissures  above, 
of  their  direction  and  extent,  and  especially  whether,  in  case 
of  a  mountain-slide,  the  huge  masses  would  be  like  to  reach 
so  far  to  the  east  and  so  low  down  the  declivity  as  the  man 
sion. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  dozing  in  his  chair. 
Old  Sophy  had  lain  down  on  her  bed,  and  was  muttering  in 
troubled  dreams. 

All  at  once  a  loud  crash  seemed  to  rend  the  very  heavens 
above  them:  a  crack  as  of  the  thunder  that  follows  close 
upon  the  bolt, — a  rending  and  crushing  as  of  a  forest  snapped 
through  all  its  stems,  torn,  twisted,  splintered,  dragged 
with  all  its  ragged  boughs  into  one  chaotic  ruin.  The 
ground  trembled  under  them  as  in  an  earthquake;  the  old 
mansion  shuddered  so  that  all  the  windows  clattered  in  their 
casements;  the  great  chimney  shook  off  its  cap-stones,  which 
came  down  on  the  roof  with  resounding  concussions ;  and  the 
echoes  of  The  Mountain  roared  and  bellowed  in  long  redu- 
plication,_as  if  its  whole  foundations  were  rent,  and  this  were 
the  terrible  voice  of  its  dissolution. 

Dudley  Venner  rose  from  his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  and 
awaited  his  fate.  There  was  no  knowing  where  to  look  for 
safety;  and  he  remembered  too  well  the  story  of  the  family 
that  was  lost  by  rushing  out  of  the  house,  and  so  hurrying 
into  the  very  jaws  of  death. 

He  had  stood  thus  but  for  a  moment,  when  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Old  Sophy  in  a  wild  cry  of  terror : — 

"It's  th'  Las'  Day!  It's  th'  Las'  Day!  The  Lord  is 
comin'  to  take  us  all !  " 

"  Sophy !  "  he  called ;  but  she  did  not  hear  him  or  heed 
him,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

The  worst  danger  was  over.  If  they  were  to  be  destroyed, 
it  would  necessarily  be  in  a  few  seconds  from  the  first  thrill 


THE    GOLDEN    COKD    IS    LOOSED.  341 

of  the  terrible  convulsion.  He  waited  in  awful  suspense, 
but  calm.  Not  more  than  one  or  two  minutes  could  have 
passed  before  the  frightful  tumult  and  all  its  sounding 
echoes  had  ceased.  He  called  Old  Sophy;  but  she  did  not 
answer.  He  went  to  the  western  window  and  looked  forth 
into  the  darkness.  He  could  not  distinguish  the  outlines  of 
the  landscape,  but  the  white  stone  was  clearly  visible,  and 
by  its  side  the  new-made  mound.  Nay,  what  was  that  which 
obscured  its  outline,  in  shape  like  a  human  figure  ?  He  flung 
open  the  window  and  sprang  through.  It  was  all  that  there 
was  left  of  poor  Old  Sophy,  stretched  out  lifeless,  upon  her 
darling's  grave. 

He  had  scarcely  composed  her  limbs  and  drawn  the  sheet 
over  her,  when  the  neighbors  began  to  arrive  from  all  direc 
tions.  Each  was  expecting  to  hear  of  houses  overwhelmed 
and  families  destroyed ;  but  each  came  with  the  story  that  his 
own  household  was  safe.  It  was  not  until  the  morning 
dawned  that  the  true  nature  and  extent  of  the  sudden  move 
ment  was  ascertained.  A  great  seam  -had  opened  above  the 
long  cliff,  and  the  terrible  Rattlesnake  Ledge,  with  all  its 
envenomed  reptiles,  its  dark  fissures  and  black  caverns,  was 
buried  forever  beneath  a  mighty  incumbent  mass  of  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MR.    SILAS    PECKHAM    RENDERS    HIS    ACCOUNT. 

The  morning  rose  clear  and  bright.  The  long  storm  was 
over,  and  the  calm  autumnal  sunshine  was  now  to  return, 
with  all  its  infinite  repose  and  sweetness.  With  the  earliest 
dawn  exploring  parties  were  out  in  every  direction  along  the 
southern  slope  of  The  Mountain,  tracing  the  ravages  of  the 
great  slide  and  the  track  it  had  followed.  It  proved  to  be 
not  so  much  a  slide  as  the  breaking  off  and  falling  of  a  vast 
line  of  cliff,  including  the  dreaded  Ledge.  It  had  folded 
over  like  the  leaves  of  a  half-opened  book  when  they  close, 
crushing  the  trees  below,  piling  its  ruins  in  a  glacis  at  the 
foot  of  what  had  been  the  overhanging  wall  of  the  cliff,  and 
filling  up  that  deep  cavity  above  the  mansion-house  which 
bore  the  ill-omened  name  of  Dead  Man's  Hollow.  This  it 
was  which  had  saved  the  Dudley  mansion.  The  falling 
masses,  or  huge  fragments  breaking  off  from  them,  would 
have  swept  the  house  and  all  around  it  to  destruction  but 
for  this  deep  shelving  dell,  into  which  the  stream  of  ruin 
was  happily  directed.  It  was,  indeed,  one  of  Nature's  con 
servative  revolutions;  for  the  fallen  masses  made  a  kind  of 
shelf,  which  interposed  a  level  break  between  the  inclined 
planes  above  and  below  it,  so  that  the  nightmare-fancies  of 
the  dwellers  in  the  Dudley  mansion,  and  in  many  other 
residences  under  the  shadow  of  The  Mountain,  need  not 
keep  them  lying  awake  hereafter  to  listen  for  the  snapping 
of  roots  and  the  splitting  of  the  rocks  above  them. 

Twenty-four  hours  after  the  falling  of  the  cliff,  it  seemed 
as  if  it  had  happened  ages  ago.  The  new  fact  had  fitted  it 
self  in  with  all  the  old  predictions,  forebodings,  fears,  and 
acquired  the  solidarity  belonging  to  all  events  which  have 
slipped  out  of  the  fingers  of  Time  and  dissolved  in  the  ante 
cedent  eternity. 

Old  Sophy  was  lying  dead  in  the  Dudley  mansion.  If 
there  were  tears  shed  for  her  they  could  not  be  bitter  ones ; 
for  she  had  lived  out  her  full  measure  of  days,  and  gone— 

342 


MR.    SILAS    PECKHAM    KENDEKS    JilS    ACCOUNT.       343 

who  could  help  fondly  believing  it? — to  rejoin  her  beloved 
mistress.  They  made  a  place  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the  two 
mounds.  It  was  thus  she  would  have  chosen  to  sleep,  and 
not  to  have  wronged  her  humble  devotion  in  life  by  asking 
to  lie  at  the  side  of  those  whom  she  had  served  so  long  and 
faithfully.  There  were  very  few  present  at  the  simple  cere 
mony.  Helen  Darley  was  one  of  these  few.  The  old  black 
woman  had  been  her  companion  in  all  the  kind  offices  of 
which  she  had  been  the  ministering  angel  to  Elsie. 

After  it  was  all  over,  Helen  was  leaving  with  the  rest,  when 
Dudley  Venner  begged  her  to  stay  a  little,  and  he  would  send 
her  back :  it  was  a  long  walk ;  besides,  he  wished  to  say  some 
things  to  her,  which  he  had  not  had  the  opportunity  of  speak 
ing.  Of  course  Helen  could  not  refuse  him;  there  must  be 
many  thoughts  coming  into  his  mind  which  he  would  wish 
to  share  with  her  who  had  known  his  daughter  so  long  and 
been  with  her  in  her  last  days. 

She  returned  into  the  great  parlor  with  the  wrought  cor 
nices  and  the  medallion-portraits  on  the  ceiling. 

"  I  am  now  alone  in  the  world,"  Dudley  Venner  said. 

Helen  must  have  known  that  before  he  spoke.  But  the 
tone  in  which  he  said  it  had  so  much  meaning,  that  she  could 
not  find  a  word  to  answer  him  with.  They  sat  in  silence, 
which  the  old  tall  clock  counted  out  in  long  seconds;  but  it 
was  silence  which  meant  more  than  any  words  they  had  ever 
spoken. 

"  Alone  in  the  world.  Helen,  the  freshness  of  my  life  is 
gone,  and  there  is  little  left  of  the  few  graces  which  in  my 
younger  days  might  have  fitted  me  to  win  the  love  of  women. 
Listen  to  me, — kindly,  if  you  can ;  forgive  me,  at  least.  Half 
my  life  has  been  passed  in  constant  fear  and  anguish,  with 
out  any  near  friend  to  share  my  trials.  My  task  is  done 
now;  my  fears  have  ceased  to  prey  upon  me;  the  sharpness 
of  early  sorrows  has  yielded  something  of  its  edge  to  time. 
You  have  bound  me  to  you  by  gratitude  in  the  tender  care 
you  have  taken  of  my  poor  child.  More  than  this.  I  must 
tell  you  all  now,  out  of  the  depth  of  this  trouble  through 
which  I  am  passing.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  moment  we 
first  met ;  and  if  my  life  has  anything  left  worth  accepting, 
it  is  yours.  Will  you  take  the  offered  gift  ? " 

Helen  looked  in  his  face,  surprised,  bewildered. 

"  This  is  not  for  me, — not  for  me,"  she  said.     "  I  am  but 


344  ELSIE   VENNEK. 

a  poor  faded  flower,  not  worth  the  gathering  of  such  a  one  as 
you.  No,  no, — I  have  been  bred  to  humble  toil  all  my  days, 
and  I  could  not  be  to  you  what  you  ought  to  ask.  I  am  ac 
customed  to  a  kind  of  loneliness  and  self-dependence.  I 
have  seen  nothing,  almost,  of  the  world,  such  as  you  were 
born  to  move  in.  Leave  me  to  my  obscure  place  and  duties ; 
I  shall  at  least  have  peace ; — and  you — you  will  surely  find  in 
due  time  someone  better  fitted  by  Nature  and  training  to 
make  you  happy." 

"  No,  Miss  Darley !  "  Dudley  Venner  said,  almost  sternly. 
"  You  must  not  speak  to  a  man  who  has  lived  through  my 
experiences,  of  looking  about  for  a  new  choice  after  his  heart 
has  once  chosen.  Say  that  you  can  never  love  me;  say  that 
I  have  lived  too  long  to  share  your  young  life;  say  that  sor 
row  has  left  nothing  in  me  for  Love  to  find  his  pleasure  in ; 
but  do  not  mock  me  with  the  hope  of  a  new  affection  for 
some  unknown  object.  The  first  look  of  yours  brought  me  to 
your  side.  The  first  tone  of  your  voice  sunk  into  my  heart. 
From  this  moment  my  life  must  wither  out  or  bloom  anew. 
My  home  is  desolate.  Come  under  my  roof  and  make  it 
bright  once  more, — share  my  life  with  me, — or  I  shall  give 
the  halls  of  the  old  mansion  to  the  bats  and  the  owls,  and 
wander  forth  alone,  without  a  hope  or  a  friend !  " 

To  find  herself  with  a  man's  future  at  the  disposal  of  a 
single  word  of  hers ! — a  man  like  this,  too,  with  a  fascination 
for  her  against  which  she  had  tried  to  shut  her  heart,  feeling 
that  he  lived  in  another  sphere  than  hers,  working  as  she 
was  for  her  bread,  a  poor  operative  in  the  factory  of  a  hard 
master  and  jealous  overseer,  the  salaried  drudge  of  Mr.  Silas 
Peckham!  Why,  she  had  thought  he  was  grateful  to  her 
as  a  friend  of  his  daughter ;  she  had  even  pleased  herself  with 
the  feeling  that  he  liked  her,  in  her  humble  place,  as  a 
woman  of  some  cultivation  and  many  sympathetic  points  of 
relation  with  himself;  but  that  he  loved  her, — that  this  deep, 
fine  nature,  in  a  man  so  far  removed  from  her  in  outward 
circumstances,  should  have  found  its  counterpart  in  one 
whom  life  had  treated  so  coldly  as  herself, — that  Dudley 
Venner  should  stake  his  happiness  on  a  breath  of  hers, — 
poor  Helen  Darley's, — it  was  all  a  surprise,  a  confusion,  a 
kind  of  fear  not  wholly  fearful.  Ah,  me !  women  know  what 
it  is, — that  mist  over  the  eyes,  that  trembling  in  the  limbs, 
that  faltering  of  the  voice,  that  sweet,  shame-faced,  un- 


MR.    SILAS   PECKHAM   RENDERS   HIS   ACCOUNT.      345 

spoken  confession  of  weakness  which  does  not  wish  to  be 
strong,  that  sudden  overflow  in  the  soul  where  thoughts 
loose  their  hold  on  each  other  and  swim  single  and  helpless 
in  the  flood  of  emotion, — women  know  what  it  is ! 

No  doubt  she  was  a  little  frightened  and  a  good  deal  be 
wildered,  and  that  her  sympathies  were  warmly  excited  for 
a  friend  to  whom  she  had  been  brought  so  near,  and  whose 
loneliness  she  saw  and  pitied.  She  lost  that  calm  self-pos 
session  she  had  hoped  to  maintain. 

"  If  I  thought  that  I  could  make  you  happy, — if  I  should 
speak  from  my  heart  and  not  my  reason, — I  am  but  a  weak 
woman, — yet  if  I  can  be  to  you —  What  can  I  say  ?  " 

What  more  could  this  poor,  dear  Helen  say? 

"  Elbridge,  harness  the  horses  and  take  Miss  Darley  back 
to  the  school." 

What  conversation  had  taken  place  since  Helen's  rhetori 
cal  failure  is  not  recorded  in  the  minutes  from  which  this 
narrative  is  constructed.  But  when  the  man  who  had  been 
summoned  had  gone  to  get  the  carriage  ready,  Helen  resumed 
something  she  had  been  speaking  of. 

"  Not  for  the  world.  Everything  must  go  on  just  as  it 
has  gone  on,  for  the  present.  There  are  proprieties  to  be 
consulted.  I  cannot  be  hard  with  you,  that  out  of  your  very 
affliction  has  sprung  this — this — well — you  must  name  it  for 
me, — but  the  world  will  never  listen  to  explanations.  I  am  to 
be  Helen  Darley,  lady  assistant  in  Mr.  Silas  Peckham's 
school,  as  long  as  I  see  fit  to  hold  my  office.  And  I  mean  to 
attend  to  my  scholars  just  as  before;  so  that  I  shall  have 
very  little  time  for  visiting  or  seeing  company.  I  believe, 
though,  you  are  one  of  the  Trustees  and  a  Member  of  the 
Examining  Committee;  so  that,  if  you  should  happen  to 
visit  the  school,  I  shall  try  to  be  civil  to  you." 

Every  lady  sees,  of  course,  that  Helen  was  quite  right; 
but  perhaps  here  and  there  one  will  think  that  Dudley  Ven- 
ner  was  all  wrong, — that  he  was  too  hasty, — that  he  should 
have  been  too  full  of  his  recent  grief  for  such  a  confession 
as  he  has  just  made,  and  the  passion  from  which  it  sprung. 
Perhaps  they  do  not  understand  the  sudden  recoil  of  a  strong 
nature  long  compressed.  Perhaps  they  have  not  studied  the 
mystery  of  allotropism  in  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart. 
Go  to  the  nearest  chemist  and  ask  him  to  show  you  some  of 


346  ELSIE    VENNEK. 

the  dark-red  phosphorus  which  will  not  burn  without  fierce 
heating,  but  at  500°,  Fahrenheit,  changes  back  again  to  the 
inflammable  substance  we  know  so  well.  Grief  seems  more 
like  ashes  than  like  fire ;  but  as  grief  has  been  love  once,  so 
it  may  become  love  again.  This  is  emotional  allotropism. 

Helen  rode  back  to  the  Institute  and  inquired  for  Mr. 
Peckham.  She  had  not  seen  him  during  the  brief  interval 
between  her  departure  from  the  mansion-house  and  her  re 
turn  to  Old  Sophy's  funeral.  There  were  various  questions 
about  the  school  she  wished  to  ask. 

"Oh,  how's  your  haalth,  Miss  Darley?"  Silas  began. 
"  We've  missed  you  consid'able.  Glad  to  see  you  back  at  the 
post  of  dooty.  Hope  the  Squire  treated  you  hahnsomely, — 
liberal  pecooniary  compensation, — hey?  A'n't  much  of  a 
loser,  I  guess,  by  acceptin'  his  propositions  ? " 

Helen  blushed  at  this  last  question,  as  if  Silas  had  meant 
something  by  it  beyond  asking  what  money  she  had  received ; 
but  his  own  double-meaning  expression  and  her  blush  were 
too  nice  points  for  him  to  have  taken  cognizance  of.  He  was 
engaged  in  a  mental  calculation  as  to  the  amount  of  the  de 
duction  he  should  make  under  the  head  of  "  demage  to  the 
institootion," — this  depending  somewhat  on  that  of  the 
"  pecooniary  compensation  "  she  might  have  received  for  her 
services  as  the  friend  of  Elsie  Venner. 

So  Helen  slid  back  at  once  into  her  routine,  the  same 
faithful,  patient  creature  she  had  always  been.  But  what 
was  this  new  light  which  seemed  to  have  kindled  in  her 
eyes?  What  was  this  look  of  peace,  which  nothing  could 
disturb,  which  smiled  serenely  through  all  the  little  mean 
nesses  with  which  the  daily  life  of  the  educational  factory 
surrounded  her, — which  not  only  made  her  seem  resigned, 
but  overflowed  all  her  features  with  a  thoughtful,  subdued 
happiness  ?  Mr.  Bernard  did  not  know, — perhaps  he  did  not 
guess.  The  inmates  of  the  Dudley  mansion  were  not  scan 
dalized  by  the  mysterious  visits  of  a  veiled  or  unveiled  lady. 
The  vibrating  tongues  of  the  "  female  youth  "  of  the  Insti 
tute  were  not  set  in  motion  by  the  standing  of  an  equipage 
at  the  gate,  waiting  for  their  lady  teacher.  The  servants  at 
the  mansion  did  not  convey  numerous  letters  with  superscrip 
tions  in  a  bold,  manly  hand,  sealed  with  the  arms  of  a  well- 
known  house,  and  directed  to  Miss  Helen  Darley;  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  did  Hiram,  the  man  from  the  lean  streak  in 


MR.    SILAS    PECKHAM    EENDEKS    HIS    ACCOUNT.       347 

New  Hampshire,  carry  sweet-smelling,  rose-hued,  many- 
layered,  criss-crossed,  fine-stitch-lettered  packages  of  note- 
paper  directed  to  Dudley  Venner,  Esq.,  and  all  too  scanty  to 
hold  that  incredible  expansion  of  the  famous  three  words 
which  a  woman  was  born  to  say, — that  perpetual  miracle 
which  astonishes  all  the  go-betweens  who  wear  their  shoes 
out  in  carrying  a  woman's  infinite  variations  on  the  theme, 
"  I  love  you." 

But  the  reader  must  remember  that  there  are  walks  in 
country-towns  where  people  are  liable  to  meet  by  accident, 
and  that  the  hollow  of  an  old  tree  has  served  the  purpose  of 
a  post-office  sometimes;  so  that  he  has  her  choice  (to  divide 
the  pronouns  impartially)  of  various  hypotheses  to  account 
for  the  new  glory  of  happiness  which  seemed  to  have  ir 
radiated  our  poor  Helen's  features,  as  if  her  dreary  life 
were  awakening  in  the  dawn  of  a  blessed  future. 

With  all  the  alleviations  which  have  been  hinted  at,  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  thought  that  the  days  and  the  weeks  had 
never  moved  so  slowly  as  through  the  last  period  of  the  au 
tumn  that  was  passing.  Elsie  had  been  a  perpetual  source 
of  anxiety  to  him,  but  still  she  had  been  a  companion.  He 
could  not  mourn  for  her;  for  he  felt  that  she  was  safer  with 
her  mother,  in  that  world  where  there  are  no  more  sorrows 
and  dangers,  than  she  could  have  been  with  him.  But  as 
he  sat  at  his  window  and  looked  at  the  three  mounds,  the 
loneliness  of  the  great  house  made  it  seem  more  like  the 
sepulcher  than  these  narrow  dwellings  where  his  beloved  and 
her  daughter  lay  close  to  each  other,  side  by  side, — Cata- 
lina,  the  bride  of  his  youth,  and  Elsie,  the  child  whom  he 
had  nurtured,  with  poor  Old  Sophy,  who  had  followed  them 
like  a  black  shadow,  at  their  feet,  under  the  same  soft  turf, 
sprinkled  with  the  brown  autumnal  leaves.  It  was  not  good 
for  him  to  be  thus  alone.  How  should  he  ever  live  through 
the  long  months  of  November  and  December? 

The  months  of  November  and  December  did,  in  some  way 
or  other,  get  rid  of  themselves  at  last,  bringing  with  them 
the  usual  events  of  village-life  and  a  few  unusual  ones. 
Some  of  the  geologists  had  been  up  to  look  at  the  great  slide, 
of  which  they  gave  those  prolix  accounts  which  everybody 
remembers  who  read  the  scientific  journals  of  the  time.  The 
engineers  reported  that  there  was  little  probability  of  any 
further  convulsion  along  the  line  of  rocks  which  overhung 


348  ELSIE 

the  more  thickly  settled  part  of  the  town.  The  naturalist? 
drew  up  a  paper  on  the  "  Probable  Extinction  of  the  Crotalus 
Durissus  in  the  Township  of  Rockland."  The  engagement 
of  the  Widow  Rowens  to  a  Little  Millionville  merchant  was 
announced, — "  Sudding  n'  onexpected,"  Widow  Leech  said, 
— "waalthy,  or  she  wouldn't  ha'  looked  at  him, — fifty  year 
old,  if  he  is  a  day,  'n'  ha'n't  got  a  white  hair  in  his  head." 
The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  had  publicly  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  join  the  Roman  Catholic  communion, — 
not  so  much  to  the  surprise  or  consternation  of  the  religious 
world  as  he  had  supposed.  Several  old  ladies  forthwith  pro 
claimed  their  intention  of  following  him;  but,  as  one  or  two 
of  them  were  deaf,  and  another  had  been  threatened  with  an 
attack  of  that  mild,  but  obstinate  complaint,  dementia 
senilis,  many  thought  it  was  not  so  much  the  force  of  his 
arguments  as  a  kind  of  tendency  to  jump  as  the  bellwether 
jumps,  well  known  in  flocks  not  included  in  the  Christian 
fold.  His  bereaved  congregation  immediately  began  pull 
ing  candidates  on  and  off,  like  new  boots,  on  trial.  Some 
pinched  in  tender  places;  some  were  too  loose;  some  were  too 
square-toed;  some  were  too  coarse,  and  didn't  please;  some 
were  too  thin,  and  wouldn't  last; — in  short,  they  couldn't 
possibly  find  a  fit.  At  last  people  began  to  drop  in  to  hear 
old  Doctor  Honeywood.  They  were  quite  surprised  to  find 
what  a  human  old  gentleman  he  was,  and  went  back  and  told 
the  others,  that,  instead  of  being  a  case  of  confluent 
sectarianism,  as  they  supposed,  the  good  old  minister  had 
been  so  well  vaccinated  with  charitable  virus  that  he  was 
now  a  true,  open-souled  Christian  of  the  mildest  type.  The 
end  of  all  which  was,  that  the  liberal  people  went  over  to  the 
old  minister  almost  in  a  body,  just  at  the  time  that  Deacon 
Shearer  and  the  "  Vinegar-Bible "  party  split  off,  and  that 
not  long  afterwards  they  sold  their  own  meeting-house  to 
the  malcontents,  so  that  Deacon  Soper  used  often  to  remind 
Colonel  Sprowle  of  his  wish  that  "  our  little  man  and  him 
[the  Reverend  Doctor]  would  swop  pulpits,"  and  tell  him  it 
had  "  pooty  nigh  come  trew."  But  this  is  anticipating  the 
course  of  events,  which  were  much  longer  in  coming  about; 
for  we  have  but  just  got  through  that  terrible  long  month, 
as  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  found  it,  of  December. 

On  the  first  of  January    Mr.   Silas  Peckham  was  in  the 
habit  of  settling  his  quarterly  accounts,  and  making  such 


ME.    SILAS    PECKHAM    BENDERS    HIS    ACCOUNT.       349 

new  arrangements  as  his  convenience  or  interest  dictated. 
New  Year  was  a  holiday  at  the  Institute.  No  doubt  this  ac 
counted  for  Helen's  being  dressed  so  charmingly, — always, 
to  be  sure,  in  her  own  simple  way,  but  yet  with  such  a  true 
lady's  air,  that  she  looked  fit  to  be  the  mistress  of  any  man 
sion  in  the  land. 

She  was  in  the  parlor  alone,  a  little  before  noon,  when  Mr. 
Peckham  came  in. 

"  I'm  ready  to  settle  my  accaount  with  you  now,  Miss  Dar- 
ley,"  said  Silas. 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,"  Helen  answered,  very 
graciously. 

"  Before  payin'  you  your  selary,"  the  Principal  continued. 
"  I  wish  to  come  to  an  understandin'  as  to  the  f  utur'.  I  con 
sider  that  I've  been  payin'  high,  very  high,  for  the  work 
you  do.  Women's  wages  can't  be  expected  to  do  more  than 
feed  and  clothe  'em,  as  a  gineral  thing,  with  a  little  savin', 
in  case  of  sickness,  and  to  bury  'em,  if  they  break  daown,  as 
all  of  'em  are  liable  to  do  at  any  time.  If  I  a'n't  misin 
formed,  you  not  only  support  yourself  out  of  my  establish 
ment,  but  likewise  relatives  of  yours,  who  I  don't  know  that 
I'm  called  upon  to  feed  and  clothe.  There  is  a  young 
woman,  not  burdened  with  destitute  relatives,  has  signified 
that  she  would  be  glad  to  take  your  dooties  for  less  pecoon- 
iary  compensation,  by  a  consid'able  amaount,  than  you  now 
receive.  I  shall  be  willin',  however,  to  retain  your  services  at 
sech  redooced  rate  as  we  shall  fix  upon, — provided  sech  re- 
dooced  rate  be  as  low  or  lower  than  the  same  services  can  be 
obtained  elsewhere." 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,"  Helen  answered,  with  a 
smile  so  sweet  that  the  Principal  (who  of  course  had  trumped 
up  this  opposition-teacher  for  the  occasion)  said  to  himself 
she  would  stand  being  cut  down  a  quarter,  perhaps  a  half,  of 
her  salary. 

"  Here  is  your  accaount,  Miss  Darley,  and  the  balance 
doo  you,"  said  Silas  Peckham,  handing  her  a  paper  and  a 
small  roll  of  infectious-flavored  bills  wrapping  six  poisonous 
coppers  of  the  old  coinage. 

She  took  the  paper  and  began  looking  at  it.  She  could 
not  quite  make  up  her  mind  to  touch  the  feverish  bills  with 
the  cankering  coppers  in  them,  and  left  them  airing  them 
selves  on  the  table. 


350  ELSIE   VENKEK. 

The  document  she  held  ran  as  follows: 

Silas  Peckham,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  Apollinean  Institute, 

In  Account  with  Helen  Darley,  Assist.  Teacher. 
Dr.  Cr. 


To  Salary  for  quarter 
ending  Jan.  1.  @ 
$75  per  quarter  . 


$75.00 


$75.00 
ROCKLAND,  Jan.  1,  1859. 


By  Deduction  for  absence,  1 

week  3  days $10.00 

"  Board,  lodging,  etc.,  for  10 

days.  @  75  cts.  per  day,  .          7.50 
"  Damage  to  Institution  by 
absence    of    teacher    from 

duties,  say 25.00 

"  Stationery  furnished      .     .          .43 

"  Postage-stamp .01 

"  Balance  due  Helen  Darley  .      32.06 

$75.00 


Now  Helen  had  her  own  private  reasons  for  wishing  to  re 
ceive  the  small  sum  which  was  due  her  at  this  time  without 
any  unfair  deduction — reasons  which  we  need  not  inquire 
into  too  particularly,  as  we  may  be  very  sure  that  they  were 
right  and  womanly.  So,  when  she  looked  over  this  account 
of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham's,  and  saw  that  he  had  contrived  to 
pare  down  her  salary  to  something  less  than  half  its  stipu 
lated  amount,  the  look  which  her  countenance  wore  was  as 
near  to  that  of  righteous  indignation  as  her  gentle  features 
and  soft  blue  eyes  would  admit  of  its  being. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Peckham,"  she  said,  "  do  you  mean  this  ?  If 
I  am  of  so  much  value  to  you  that  you  must  take  off  twenty- 
five  dollars  for  ten  days'  absence,  how  is  it  that  my  salary 
is  to  be  cut  down  to  less  than  seventy-five  dollars  a  quarter, 
if  I  remain  here  ?  " 

"  I  gave  you  fair  notice,"  said  Silas.  "  I  have  a  minute 
of  it  I  took  down  immed'ately  after  the  intervoo." 

He  lugged  out  his  large  pocket-book  with  the  strap  going 
all  round  it,  and  took  from  it  a  slip  of  paper  which  con 
firmed  his  statement. 

"  Besides,"  he  added  slyly,  "  I  presoom  you  have  received 
a  liberal  pecooniary  compensation  from  Squire  Venner  for 
nussin'  his  daughter." 

Helen  was  looking  over  the  bill  while  he  was  speaking. 

"  Board  and  lodging  for  ten  days,  Mr.  Peckham — whose 
board  and  lodging,  pray  ?  " 


MR.    SILAS    PECKHAM    RENDERS    HIS    ACCOUNT.       351 

The  door  opened  before  Silas  Peckham  could  answer,  and 
Mr.  Bernard  walked  into  the  parlor.  Helen  was  holding  the 
bill  in  her  hand,  looking  as  any  woman  ought  to  look  who 
has  been  at  once  wronged  and  insulted. 

"  The  last  turn  of  the  thumbscrew !  "  said  Mr.  Bernard  to 
himself.  "What  is  it,  Helen?  You  look  troubled." 

She  handed  him  the  account. 

He  looked  at  the  footing  of  it.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
items.  Then  he  looked  at  Silas  Peckham. 

At  this  moment  Silas  was  sublime.  He  was  so  trans- 
cendently  unconscious  of  the  emotions  going  on  in  Mr. 
Bernard's  mind  at  the  moment,  that  he  had  only  a  single 
thought. 

"  The  accaount's  correc'ly  cast,  I  presoom ; — if  the'  's  any 
mistake  of  figgers  or  addin'  'em  up,  it'll  be  made  all  right. 
Everything's  accordin'  to  agreement.  The  minute  written 
immed'ately  after  the  intervoo  is  here  in  my  possession." 

Mr.  Bernard  looked  at  Helen.  Just  what  would  have  hap 
pened  to  Silas  Peckham,  as  he  stood  then  and  there,  but  for 
the  interposition  of  a  merciful  Providence,  nobody  knows 
or  ever  will  know ;  for  at  that  moment  steps  were  heard  upon 
the  stairs,  and  Hiram  threw  open  the  parlor-door  for  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  to  enter. 

He  saluted  them  all  gracefully  with  the  good  wishes  of  the 
season,  and  each  of  them  returned  his  compliment, — Helen 
blushing  fearfully,  of  course,  but  not  particularly  noticed  in 
her  embarrassment  by  more  than  one. 

Silas  Peckham  reckoned  with  perfect  confidence  on  his 
Trustees,  who  had  always  said  what  he  told  them  to,  and 
done  what  he  wanted.  It  was  a  good  chance  now  to  show 
oft'  his  power,  and,  by  letting  his  instructors  know  the  un 
stable  tenure  of  their  offices,  make  it  easier  to  settle  his 
accounts  and  arrange  his  salaries.  There  was  nothing  very 
strange  in  Mr.  Venner's  calling ;  he  was  one  of  the  Trustees 
and  this  was  New  Year's  Day.  But  he  had  called  just  at 
the  lucky  moment  for  Mr.  Peckham's  object. 

"  I  have  thought  some  of  makin'  changes  in  the  depart 
ment  of  instruction,"  he  began.  "  Several  accomplished 
teachers  have  applied  to  me,  who  would  be  glad  of  sitooa- 
tions.  I  understand  that  there  never  have  been  so  many 
fust-rate  teachers,  male  and  female,  out  of  employment  as 
doorin'  the  present  season.  If  I  can  make  sahtisfahctovy 


352  ELSIE    TEENER. 

arrangements  with  my  present  corpse  of  teachers,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  do  so;  otherwise  I  shell,  with  the  permission  of  the 
Trustees,  make  sech  noo  arrangements  as  circumstahnces 
compel." 

"  You  may  make  arrangements  for  a  new  assistant  in  my 
department,  Mr.  Peckham,"  said  Mr.  Bernard,  "  at  once, — 
this  day, — this  hour.  I  am  not  safe  to  be  trusted  with  your 
person  five  minutes  out  of  this  lady's  presence, — of  whom  I 
beg  pardon  for  this  strong  language.  Mr.  Venner,  I  must 
beg  you,  as  one  of  the  Trustees  of  this  institution,  to  look  at 
the  manner  in  which  its  Principal  has  attempted  to  swindle 
this  faithful  teacher,  whose  toils  and  sacrifices  and  self-devo 
tion  to  the  school  have  made  it  all  that  it  is,  in  spite  of  this 
miserable  trader's  incompetence.  Will  you  look  at  the 
paper  I  hold?" 

Dudley  Venner  took  the  account  and  read  it  through, 
without  changing  a  feature.  Then  he  turned  to  Silas 
Peckham. 

"  You  may  make  arrangements  for  a  new  assistant  in  the 
branches  this  lady  has  taught.  Miss  Helen  Darley  is  to  be 
my  wife.  I  had  hoped  to  have  announced  this  news  in  a  less 
abrupt  and  ungraceful  manner.  But  I  came  to  tell  you 
with  my  own  lips  what  you  would  have  learned  before  even 
ing  from  my  friends  in  the  village." 

Mr.  Bernard  went  to  Helen,  who  stood  silent,  with  down 
cast  eyes,  and  took  her  hand  warmly,  hoping  she  might  find 
all  the  happiness  she  deserved.  Then  he  turned  to  Dudley 
Venner,  and  said, — 

"  She  is  a  queen,  but  has  never  found  it  out.  The  world 
has  nothing  nobler  than  this  dear  woman,  whom  you  have 
discovered  in  the  disguise  of  a  teacher.  God  bless  her  and 
you!" 

Dudley  Venner  returned  his  friendly  grasp,  without  an 
swering  a  word  in  articulate  speech. 

Silas  remained  dumb  and  aghast  for  a  brief  space.  Com 
ing  to  himself  a  little,  he  thought  there  might  have  been 
some  mistake  about  the  items, — would  like  to  have  Miss 
Darley's  bill  returned, — would  make  it  all  right, — had  no 
idee  that  Squire  Venner  had  a  special  int'rest  in  Miss 
Darley, — was  sorry  he  had  given  offense, — if  he  might  take 
that  bill  and  look  it  over 

"No,   Mr.   Peckham,"   said   Mr.    Dudley   Venner;    "there 


ME.    SILAS    PECKHAM    RENDERS    HIS    ACCOUNT.       353 

will  be  a  full  meeting  of  the  Board  next  week,  and  the  bill, 
and  such  evidence  with  reference  to  the  management  of  the 
Institution  and  the  treatment  of  its  instructors  as  Mr.  Lang- 
don  sees  fit  to  bring  forward  will  be  laid  before  them." 

Miss  Helen  Barley  became  that  very  day  the  guest  of  Miss 
Arabella  Thornton,  the  Judge's  daughter.  Mr.  Bernard 
made  his  appearance  a  week  or  two  later  at  the  Lectures, 
where  the  Professor  first  introduced  him  to  the  reader. 

He  stayed  after  the  class  had  left  the  room. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Langdon !  how  do  you  do  ?  Very  glad  to  see  you 
back  again.  How  have  you  been  since  our  correspondence 
on  Fascination  and  other  curious  scientific  questions  ? " 

It  was  the  Professor  who  spoke, — whom  the  reader  will 
recognize  as  myself,  the  teller  of  this  story. 

"  I  have  been  well,"  Mr.  Bernard  answered,  with  a  serious 
look  which  invited  a  further  question. 

"  I  hope  you  have  had  none  of  those  painful  or  dangerous 
experiences  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  when  you  wrote; 
at  any  rate  you  have  escaped  having  your  obituary  written." 

"  I  have  seen  some  things  worth  remembering.  Shall  I 
call  on  you  this  evening  and  tell  you  about  them  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you." 

This  was  the  way  in  which  I,  the  Professor,  became  ac 
quainted  with  some  of  the  leading  events  of  this  story. 
They  interested  me  sufficiently  to  lead  me  to  avail  myself  of 
all  those  other  extrordinary  methods  of  obtaining  informa 
tion  well  known  to  writers  of  narrative. 

Mr.  Langdon  seemed  to  me  to  have  gained  in  seriousness 
and  strength  of  character  by  his  late  experiences.  He  threw 
his  whole  energies  into  his  studies  with  an  effect  which  dis 
tanced  all  his  previous  efforts.  Remembering  my  former 
hint,  he  employed  his  spare  hours  in  writing  for  the  annual 
prizes,  both  of  which  he  took  by  a  unanimous  vote  of  the 
judges.  Those  who  heard  him  read  his  Thesis  at  the 
Medical  Commencement  will  not  soon  forget  the  impression 
made  by  his  fine  personal  appearance  and  manners,  nor  the 
universal  interest  excited  in  the  audience,  as  he  read,  with 
his  beautiful  enunciation,  that  striking  paper  entitled  "  Un 
resolved  Nebulae  in  Vital  Science."  It  was  a  general  remark 
of  the  Faculty, — and  old  Doctor  Kittredge,  who  had  come 
down  on  purpose  to  hear  Mr.  Langdon,  heartily  agreed  to 


354  ELSIE    TENNER. 

it, — that  there  had  never  been  a  diploma  filled  up,  since  the 
institution  which  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor 
Medicinse  was  founded,  which  carried  with  it  more  of 
promise  to  the  profession  than  that  which  bore  the  name  of 

BERNARDUS  CARYL  LANGDON. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  had  no  sooner  taken  his  degree, 
than,  in  accordance  with  the  advice  of  one  of  his  teachers 
whom  he  frequently  consulted,  he  took  an  office  in  the  heart 
of  the  city  where  he  had  studied.  He  had  thought  of  be 
ginning  in  a  suburb  or  some  remoter  district  of  the  city 
proper. 

"  No,"  said  his  teacher, — to  wit,  myself, — "  don't  do  any 
such  thing.  You  are  made  for  the  best  kind  of  practice; 
don't  hamper  yourself  with  an  outside  constituency,  such  as 
belongs  to  a  practitioner  of  the  second  class.  When  a  fellow 
like  you  chooses  his  beat,  he  must  look  ahead  a  little.  Take 
care  of  all  the  poor  that  apply  to  you,  but  leave  the  half- 
pay  classes  to  a  different  style  of  doctor, — the  people  who 
spend  one  half  their  time  in  taking  care  of  their  patients, 
and  the  other  half  in  squeezing  out  their  money.  Go  for 
the  swell-fronts  and  south-exposure  houses;  the  folks  inside 
are  just  as  good  as  other  people,  and  the  pleasantest,  on  the 
whole,  to  take  care  of.  They  must  have  somebody,  and  they 
like  a  gentleman  best.  Don't  throw  yourself  away.  You 
have  a  good  presence  and  pleasing  manners.  You  wear 
white  linen  by  inherited  instinct.  You  can  pronounce  the 
word  view.  You  have  all  the  elements  of  success;  go  and 
take  it.  Be  polite  and  generous,  but  don't  undervalue  your 
self.  You  will  be  useful,  at  any  rate;  you  may  just  as  well 
be  happy,  while  you  are  about  it.  The  highest  social  class 
furnishes  incomparably  the  best  patients,  taking  them  by 
and  large.  Besides,  when  they  won't  get  well  and  bore  you 
to  death,  you  can  send  'em  off  to  travel.  Mind  me  now,  and 
take  the  tops  of  your  sparrowgrass.  Somebody  must  have 
'em, — why  shouldn't  you?  If  you  don't  take  your  chance, 
you'll  get  the  butt-ends  as  a  matter  of  course." 

Mr.  Bernard  talked  like  a  young  man  full  of  noble  senti 
ments.  He  wanted  to  be  useful  to  his  fellow-beings.  Their 
social  differences  were  nothing  to  him.  He  would  never 


356  ELSIE 

court  the  rich, — he  would  go  where  he  was  called.  He  would 
rather  save  the  life  of  a  poor  mother  of  a  family  than  that 
of  half  a  dozen  old  gouty  millionaires  whose  heirs  had  been 
yawning  and  stretching  these  ten  years  to  get  rid  of  them. 

"  Generous  emotions !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Cherish  'em ;  cling 
to  'em  till  you  are  fifty,  till  you  are  seventy,  till  you  are 
ninety!  But  do  as  I  tell  you, — strike  for  the  best  circle  of 
practice,  and  you'll  be  sure  to  get  it !  " 

Mr.  Langdon  did  as  I  told  him, — took  a  genteel  office, 
furnished  it  neatly,  dressed  with  a  certain  elegance,  soon 
.  made  a  pleasant  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  began  to  work 
V  his  way  into  the  right  kind  of  business.  I  missed  him, 
however,  for  some  days,  not  long  after  he  had  opened  his 
office.  On  his  return,  he  told  me  he  had  been  up  at  Rock- 
land  by  special  invitation,  to  attend  the  wedding  of  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  and  Miss  Helen  Darley.  He  gave  me  a  full 
account  of  the  ceremony,  which  I  regret  that  I  cannot  relate 
in  full.  "  Helen  looked  like  an  angel," — that,  I  am  sure, 
was  one  of  his  expressions.  As  for  dress,  I  should  like 
to  give  the  details,  but  am  afraid  of  committing  blunders, 
as  men  always  do,  when  they  undertake  to  describe  such 
matters.  White  dress,  anyhow, — that  I  am  sure  of, — with 
orange-flowers,  and  the  most  wonderful  lace  veil  that  was 
ever  seen  or  heard  of.  The  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood 
performed  the  ceremony,  of  course.  The  good  people 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  they  ever  had  had  any  other  min 
ister, — except  Deacon  Shearer  and  his  set  of  malcontents, 
who  were  doing  a  dull  business  in  the  meeting-house  lately 
occupied  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather. 

"  Who  was  at  the  wedding  ? " 

"  Everybody,  pretty  much.  They  wanted  to  keep  it  quiet, 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  Married  at  church.  Front  pews,  old 
Doctor  Kittredge  and  all  the  mansion-house  people  and  dis 
tinguished  strangers, — Colonel  Sprowle  and  family,  includ 
ing  Matilda's  young  gentleman,  a  graduate  of  one  of  the 
fresh-water  colleges, — Mrs.  Pickins  (late  Widow  Rowens) 
and  husband, — Deacon  Soper  and  numerous  parishioners. 
A  little  nearer  the  door,  Abel,  the  Doctor's  man,  and  El- 
bridge,  who  drove  them  to  church  in  the  family-coach, 
Father  Fairweather,  as  they  all  call  him  now,  came  in  late 
with  Father  McShane." 


CONCLUSION.  357 

"And  Silas  Peckham?" 

"Oh,  Silas  had  left  The  School  and  Rockland.  Cut  up 
altogether  too  badly  in  the  examination  instituted  by  the 
Trustees.  Had  removed  over  to  Tamarack,  and  thought  of 
renting  a  large  house  and  l  farming '  the  town-poor." 

Some  time  after  this,  as  I  was  walking  with  a  young  friend 
along  by  the  swell-fronts  and  south-exposures,  whom  should 
I  see  but  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon,  looking  remarkably  happy, 
and  keeping  step  by  the  side  of  a  very  handsome  and  singu 
larly  well-dressed  young  lady!  He  bowed  and  lifted  his  hat 
as  we  passed. 

"  Who  is  that  pretty  girl  my  young  doctor  has  got  there  ? " 
I  said  to  my  companion. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  he  answered.  "  You  don't  know  ?  Why, 
that  is  neither  more  or  less  than  Miss  Letitia  Forrester, 
daughter  of — of — why,  the  great  banking-firm,  you  know, 
Bilyuiis  Brothers  &  Forrester.  Got  acquainted  with  her  in 
the  country,  they  say.  There's  a  story  that  they're  engaged, 
or  like  to  be,  if  the  firm  consents." 

"Oh!  "I  said. 

I  did  not  like  the  look  of  it  in  the  least.  Too  young, — too 
young.  Has  not  taken  any  position  yet.  No  right  to  ask 
for  the  hand  of  Bilyuns  Brothers  &  Co.'s  daughter.  Besides, 
it  will  spoil  him  for  practice,  if  he  marries  a  rich  girl  before 
he  has  formed  habits  of  work. 

I  looked  in  at  his  office  the  next  day.  A  box  of  white  kids 
was  lying  open  on  the  table.  A  three-cornered  note,  directed 
in  a  very  delicate  lady's-hand,  was  distinguishable  among  a 
heap  of  papers.  I  was  just  going  to  call  him  to  account  for 
his  proceedings,  when  he  pushed  the  three-cornered  note 
aside  and  took  up  a  letter  with  a  great  corporation-seal  upon 
it.  He  had  received  the  offer  of  a  professor's  chair  in  an 
ancient  and  distinguished  institution. 

"  Pretty  well  for  three-and-twenty,  my  boy,"  I  said.  "  I 
suppose  you'll  think  you  must  be  married  one  of  these  days, 
if  you  accept  this  office." 

Mr.  Langdon  blushed.  There  had  been  stories  about  him, 
he  knew.  His  name  had  been  mentioned  in  connection  with 
that  of  a  very  charming  young  lady.  The  current  reports 
were  not  true.  He  had  met  this  young  lady,  and  been  much 
pleased  with  her,  in  the  country,  at  the  house  of  her  grand- 


358  ELSIE    VENNER. 

father,  the  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood, — you  remember 
Miss  Letitia  Forrester,  whom  I  have  mentioned  repeatedly? 
On  coming  to  town,  he  found  his  country-acquaintance  in  s 
social  position  which  seemed  to  discourage  his  continued 
intimacy.  He  had  discovered,  however,  that  he  was  a  not 
unwelcome  visitor,  and  had  kept  up  friendly  relations  with 
her.  But  there  was  no  truth  in  the  current  reports, — none 
at  all. 

Some  months  had  passed,  after  this  visit,  when  I  hap 
pened  one  evening  to  stroll  into  a  box  in  one  of  the  principal 
theaters  of  the  city.  A  small  party  sat  on  the  seats  before 
me;  a  middle-aged  gentleman  and  his  lady,  in  front,  and 
directly  behind  them  my  young  doctor  and  the  same  very 
handsome  young  lady  I  had  seen  him  walking  with  on  the 
sidewalk  before  the  swell-fronts  and  south-exposures.  As 
Professor  Langdon  seemed  to  be  very  much  taken  up  with 
his  companion  and  both  of  them  looked  as  if  they  were  en 
joying  themselves,  I  determined  not  to  make  my  presence 
known  to  my  young  friend,  and  to  withdraw  quietly  after 
feasting  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of  them  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  It  looks  as  if  something  might  come  of  it,"  I  said  to 
myself.  At  that  moment  the  young  lady  lifted  her  arm  ac 
cidentally  in  such  a  way  that  the  light  fell  upon  the  clasp 
of  a  chain  which  encircled  her  wrist.  My  eyes  filled  with 
tears  as  I  read  upon  the  clasp,  in  sharp-cut  Italic  letters, 
E.  V.  They  were  tears  at  once  of  sad  remembrance  and  of 
joyous  anticipation;  for  the  ornament  on  which  .1  looked 
was  the  double  pledge  of  a  dead  sorrow  and  a  living  affection. 
It  was  the  golden  bracelet, — the  parting-gift  of  Elsie 
Venner. 


THE  END. 


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